Now that Spring is in the land,
Now that April wakes the wood,
I would take my scrip in hand,
Roving with old Solitude.

I would leave the haunts of men,
All the rabble of the mart;
I would be a child again,
Close upon my Mother's heart.

Being kin to every star
In the marvellous Spring nights,
I would journey forth afar,
Drinking in long-lost delights.

For the world was made for me,
I who love her music so;
I was meant for Arcady,
Where the April tides sing low.

I would lie upon the breast
Of my Mother all day long--
She who eases my unrest
With her musical low song.

She it is who calls me forth
When the Springtide winds begin,
That, in faring south or north,
I can cease to think of sin;

Yea, and even when the rain
Of sweet April falls on me,
I can hear a beloved refrain
In the welcome minstrelsy;

Glad because I am without,
Following my vagrant will,
Putting all my cares to rout
When I feel the first new thrill.

Mother! I would forth with you,
I would take your outstreched hand;
Let us fare amid the dew,
Now that Spring is in the land.