The spring comes dripping o’er the hill.
I fill my cup again, again,
I drink for all—good health to men—
I hear the rising bell’s faint sound,
The porter makes his usual round.
And black-eyed Easter trips along
The kitchen porch with smile and song,
We find a poem in her churn,
An essence in her coffee urn;
We note the pale dyspeptic’s cheek