Springtime.
When meadows are strewn with the buttercup’s gold,
There’s gladness for childhood that song never told;
The laugh of a child, bubbling up from the heart,
Is linked with the spring, a most beautiful part.
A bevy of children—sweet far away dream!—
They trip o’er the sward, lit with dandelion gleam—
We’ll join in their sports with a heartiness true;
Our own vanished springtime, with them, we’ll renew.
The woods, (that are reached by a romp thro’ the lane
Where the grass is made velvet by sunshine and rain)
Have infinite beauty, in blossom outspread—
Delights for the gods in the fragrance they shed.
Come, drink in the perfume of blossoming trees—
Take lessons of patience from murmuring bees,
And listen to brooklets—they’ll sing you a song
As, wild in their glee, they go leaping along.
Come, watch the wild birds as they cheerily dart—
Their music, with sunshine, take into your heart—
Let the gladness of childhood thrill you, and be gay,
Thus keeping your soul in perpetual May.
When Nature is robing her forests anew,
And heaven spreads over her loveliest blue—
When earth is aglow with spring’s ravishing bloom,
Ingratitude only sits shrouded in gloom.