And I hear their sweet songs to burst forth again.
Goddess of mirth,
Gay queen of the earth,
Thou mak’st their tones rise up to the azure skies
That they may encore thine orchestral train.
March spreads her boisterous clouds like Autumn’s silvery shrouds,
And whistles her winds through thy soft, balmy hair,—
Goddess of mirth,
Gay queen of the earth,
Then soon thy soft April showers make way for May’s bowers