Left by the stormy blast,
The little hopeful blossom peeps,
And tells of winter past;
A few leaves flutter from the woods,
That hung the season through,
Leaving their place for swelling buds
To spread their leaves anew.
'Mong wither'd grass upon the plain,
That lent the blast a voice,
The tender green appears again,
And creeping things rejoice;
Each warm bank shines with early flowers,
Where oft a lonely bee
Drones, venturing on in sunny hours,
Its humming song to thee.
The birds are busy on the wing,
The fish play in the stream;
And many a hasty curdled ring
Crimps round the leaping bream;
The buds unfold to leaves apace,
Along the hedgerow bowers,
And many a child with rosy face
Is seeking after flowers.
The soft wind fans the violet blue,
Its opening sweets to share,
And infant breezes, waked anew,
Play in the maidens' hair—
Maidens that freshen with thy flowers,
To charm the gentle swain,
And dally, in their milking hours,
With lovers' vows again.