Spring Song

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.