THE spring will come again, dear friends,
The swallow o’er the sea;
The bud will hang upon the bough,
The blossom on the tree;
And many a pleasant sound will rise to greet her on her way,
The voice of bird, and leaf, and stream, and warm winds in their play
Ah! sweet the airs that round her breathe! and bountiful is she,
She bringeth all the things that fresh, and sweet, and hopeful be;
She scatters promise on the earth with open hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me!

Summer will come again, dear friends,
Low murmurs of the bee
Will rise through the long sunny day
Above the flowery lea;
And deep the dreamy woods will own the slumbrous spell she weaves,
And send a greeting, mix’d with sighs, through all their quivering leaves.
Oh, precious are her glowing gifts! and plenteous is she,
She bringeth all the lovely things that bright and fragrant be,
She scatters fulness on the Earth with lavish hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me!

Autumn will come again, dear friends,
His spirit-touch shall be
With gold upon the harvest-field,
With crimson on the tree;
He passeth o’er the silent woods, they wither at his breath,
Slow fading in a still decay, a change that is not Death.
Oh! rich and liberal, and wise, and provident is he!
He taken to his garner-house the things that ripen’d be,
He gathereth his store from Earth, and silently—
And he will gather me, my friends,
He will gather me!