While happy faces striking through the green
Of leafy roads at every town are seen.
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white,
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light—
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine and swirl into the bay.
Already in the streets the stir grows loud,
Of expectation and a bustling crowd;
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;