Spring once more is here—
Joyous, sweet, and clear—
Singing down the leafless aisles
To the budding year.
Her chanting is the thrush
Through the twilight hush,
And the silver tongues of waters
Where the willows blush;
Stir of lifting heads
Over violet beds;
Piping of the first glad robin
Through the greens and reds;
Croak of sullen crows
When the south wind blows,
Sighing in the shaggy spruces
Wet with melted snows;
Whisper of the rain
Down the hills again,
And the heavy feet of waters
Tramping on the plain.
Now the Goddess Spring
Makes the woodlands ring,
Bringing with a hundred voices
Joy to everything.
The Flutes of the Frogs
'Tis not the notes of the homing birds through the first warm April rain,
Or the scarlet buds and the rising green come back to the land again,
That stirs my heart from its winter sleep to pulse to the old refrain;
But when from the miles of bubbling marsh and
the valley's steaming floor,
Shrilling keen with a million flutes the ancient spring-time lore,
I hear the myriad emerald frogs awake in the world once more.
All day when the clouds drive overhead and the shadows run below,
Crossing the wind-swept pasture lots where the thin, red willows glow,
There's not a throat in the joyous host that does not swell and blow.