I RODE through Eastnor woods to-day.
And all the air did promise May,
Did promise May till every tree
Found voice to make much melody.

And oh, the primi-ose flowers ! they glowed
In thousands all along the road,
Spreading their magic through the grove.
Like countless hoards of treasure-trove.

I said, 'Perchance 'tis God who threw
These golden coins from out the blue,
That with such bounty He might buy
The thoughts of one so poor as I !'