The gale, that o’er yon waving almond blows,
The verdant bank with silver blossoms strews;
The smiling season decks each flowery glade.
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!
What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air!
Hills, dales, and woods their loveliest mantles wear,
Who knows what cares await that fatal day,
When ruder guests shall banish gentle May?
E’en death, perhaps, our valleys will invade.
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!