Lapped in spring's maternal tenderness,
The lenitive touch of heaven nigh,
Thawing ripples attune their breakup.
To the ardor of a far-flung sky.

Shy and sheltered violets emerge
From the nethermost lee,
Where trodden weeds transform
To floral bursts of luxury.

Spring is a wandering sage,
Supply in her hands overflowing,
She leaves no lonely, inaccessible place
Where the hand of the master isn't sowing.