ceaseless flow, with “breath all odor and cheek all bloom.”
Whatever else droops, spring is gay: her little feet trip
lightly on, turning up the daisies, paddling the water-
cresses, rocking the oriole's cradle; challenging the sed- [20]
entary shadows to activity, and the streams to race for the
sea. Her dainty fingers put the fur cap on pussy-willow,
paint in pink the petals of arbutus, and sweep in soft
strains her Orphean lyre. “The voice of the turtle is
heard in our land.” The snow-bird that tarried through [25]
the storm, now chirps to the breeze; the cuckoo sounds