Drifted snow on the drooping trees.
Through branching bloom, and mist of green,
Now here, now there, upon the wing,
Flame of oriole faintly seen—
Vision fair of the winsome spring.
A low-drawn cadence, thrilling, low,
A call, a charm unto the ear;
A forest brook in golden flow,
A love song to the waking year.
And all the gladness of a young May