Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring!
Old Winter you impannel,
And play at romps with frost and snow,—
Jane!—air my under-flannel!
Autumn.
In this glad season, when the ripened corn
All golden-hued along the landscape gleams,
And fruits, as poured from Plenty’s flowing horn,
Blush red and purple in the sun’s bright beams.
Incense of gratitude it well beseems