Hail, little herald!--Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?
Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
That spring is on the way?
Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
The trumpet notes are drifting--floating--falling--
Whene'er the breezes blow!

'Winter is over, and the spring is coming!'
Glad is thy message, little page in black--
'Winter is over, and the spring is coming--
The spring is coming back!'

Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather,
Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring?--
Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather,
While flying to the North on buoyant wing?

Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branches
And hear the sap go singing through the trees?--
Didst watch with keen, far-seeing downward glances,
The leaves unlock their cells with fairy keys?

What though thy voice hath not a trace of sweetness
It thrills one through and through,
With promises of Joy in all completeness
What time the skies are blue.
When robins from the apple-trees are flinging
Out on the air their silver shower of song,--
In lilac days, when children run a-singing,
No single thought shall do thy memory wrong.

'Winter is over and the spring is coming!'
Sweet are thy tidings, little page in black--
'Winter is over and the spring is coming--
The spring is coming back!'