When airs caress and May is new,
Oh, then my shy bird sings so well!
Because the blood-roots flock in white,
And blossomed branches scent the air,
And mounds with trillium flags are dight,
And myriad dells of violets rare;
Because such velvet leaves unclose,
And newborn rills all chiming ring,
And blue the dear St Lawrence flows—
My timid bird is forced to sing.