Steady and absolute,

Ancient and sure.

WHEN SPRING GOES BY.

The winds that on the uplands softly lie,

Grow keener where the ice is lingering still,

Where the first robin on the sheltered hill

Pipes blithely to the tune, “When Spring goes by!”

Hear him again, “Spring! Spring!” he seems to cry,

Haunting the fall of the flute-throated rill,

That keeps a gentle, constant, silver thrill,