NOW colored lights of morning rise
And paint the skies
With warmer dyes,
A thousand times
More bright, more rare
As summer climbs
The northern stair;
To where,
Expecting them with joy and song,
(Though winter still be on the hill),
Sits March, his verdant vale along,
And pipes for Summer with a will.

Bright jets of flame, the crocus buds
Out of their beds
Lift up their heads;
Then with a spring
Above the mold,
Each purple wing,
Each wing of gold,
Unfold;
Bright correspondents in the grass
Of that high incandescent sun,
Whose bending angels, as they pass,
Light up the flowers one by one.