Hark,
I hear a robin calling! List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river's orient reaches Are the palest amethyst.
Every limpid brook is singing Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing With the maddest roundelays.
Come and let us seek together Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather Greeting on the sun-warm hills.
Ours shall be the moonrise stealing Through the birches ivory-white;
Ours shall be the mystic healing Of the velvet-footed night.
Ours shall be the gypsy winding Of the path with violets blue,
Ours at last the wizard finding Of the land where dreams come true.
