Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And penciling the wood anemone:
Silent they seem—yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where’er thou art—
What wakest thou in the heart?