Does the voice of her coming with melody thrill?
Do you strive the first breath of her whispers to greet?
She is coming. Bright garlands her pathway surround;
Her fair hands are laden with blossoms of snow.
Do you hear the soft sweep of her robe o’er the ground,
As she speaks to the flowers to awaken and glow?
Creep forth the small vines from the hedge and the wall,
So shyly they meet the glad gaze of the sun;
The brooklets sing low as they clamber and fall,
And the brown hills new mantles resplendent have won.