And strong is every living thing;
And all is pleasant health, and thriving,
In thy sweet season, lovely Spring!
Yes, every knoll its wealth unbosoms,
And laugheth o’er the winter flown,
And see the dead old trunk hath blossoms,
And moss is on the cold gray stone.
LXXXIII.
And up the butterfly is springing
From out the shroud, that lately wound him;