When love is in her eyes
What need of spring for me?
—ANNA MARIA FAY.
Who is there can sing of a more divine thing
Than the edge of the woods in the edge of the spring,
Ere the violets peep, while hepaticas sleep,
And still in the hollows the snow-drifts lie deep?
—MILDRED G. PHILLIPS.
The erthe was ful softe and swete.
Through moysture of the welle wete