The softest turf of English green,
With sloping walks and trees between,
And then a bed of flowers half-seen.
Here daffodils in early Spring
And violets their off'rings bring,
And sweetest birds their hymns outsing.
When country roads begin to thaw
In mottled spots of damp and dust,
And fences by the margin draw
Along the frozen crust
Their graphic silhouettes, I say,
The Spring is coming round this way.
When suddenly some shadow bird
Goes wavering beneath the gaze,
And through the hedge the moan is heard
Of kine that fain would graze