Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein, The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.
Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair, With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;
Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes, Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead to arise!
For see, as she bends o'er the coffin deep—the frozen valley and hill— The dead river stirs,—ah, that ling'ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!
And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud, Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!
The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old, And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.
MADAM GRUNDY.
Madam, they say, has lost her way. Tell me, has she passed thither? Let her alone and she'll come home, And bring her tales all with her.