Spring is the time when the sunshine is stealing
And breaking through clouds o'er a landscape of green,
Awakening new hopes, when first we see gleaming
Buds and sweet herbs by the deep quiet stream.
Then come the sweetest thoughts, born of day-dreaming,
Joys which nor time nor decay can impair;
Rapturous scenes and carols loudly pealing,
And blushing flowers unfolding in the fresh balmy air.
Myriads of violets secluded lie sleeping,
Encumbered with dews to refresh the young Spring;
And budding young clusters of tender grapes weeping,
Hang by their tendrils a promised store to bring.
Daisies are here too—the little English blossom—
Flower hailed by peasant when meadows are green,
Gem of the garden, and a star on earth's bosom,
Displaying thy beauties—thou Nature's fair queen!
Spring loves the celandine, the lily and the wallflower,
Sighs o'er the sweets of the roses as they blow,
Clust'ring young honeysuckles twine round her bower,
And beauty and freshness and greenness there glow.
Trees, which stern boreas had left all quite leafless,
Awaken to life 'neath the sun's cheering rays;
And birds seek their old haunts, and build there with gladness,
Whilst lone woods resound with sweet Philomel's lays.
Thou season for painter—for poet—and for lover,
I have drank of thy spirit, and watched thy decline;
My hopes once so bright, as thy sunshine, are over,
And the last rose of summer may only be mine!