SPRING.
Wooed by thy balmy breath, O witching Spring.
The woodland nymphs are charming us anew,
And yon blue dome acquires a richer hue.
Waked from its winter's sleep on gauzy wing,
The butterfly flits past no more to cling
A slave forlorn to some enamored branch.
How joyfully the laughing lilies launch
Their dainty barques; they safe at anchor swing
In many a sylvan nook. Swift and free
The swallow skims athwart the river's breast
A burnished emblem of the glancing sea
Which ever glimmers in a vague unrest:—
An image beautiful, content to be
By minds diverse in divers colors dressed.