And the white-thorns sending perfumes from the trees,
And the white-thorns sending perfumes from the trees.
Solo.—First Voice.
Spring she is a maiden, waiting to be wooed,
Hiding blossoms laden in her solitude;
Coy she is, and meeker than the summer fair,
But for those who seek her, gifts she has more rare,
But for those who seek her, gifts she has more rare.
(Repeat 1st verse.)
Solo.—Second Voice.