Like freedom’s voice when a chain’s unbound.
And soon with its bloom will the earth be gay,
For the air is bland as the breath of May;
Sunshine and buds and all glorious things
Will give to the hours their downiest wings.
Nature has burst from her wintry tomb,
Wreathed with the glory of brightening bloom;
Fetters of frost-work are gently unbound,
Blossoms and flowers are clustering round.
Bosoms that know not the blighting of care,