in order; and between taking up the white carpets and
putting down the green ones, her various apartments are
dismally dirty.
Spring is my sweetheart, whose voices are sad or glad, [10]
even as the heart may be; restoring in memory the sweet
rhythm of unforgotten harmonies, or touching tenderly
its tearful tones.
Spring passes over mountain and meadow, waking up
the world; weaving the wavy grass, nursing the timid [15]
spray, stirring the soft breeze; rippling all nature in