And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang cloudy day!
For the lone day dies through purple bars—
And a misty grief enwraps the stars,
And our hopes are ashen-gray.
But the flowers bud and the flowers blow
And the mossy streams are sheen,
And the downy clouds to the Norland go,
While the blue sky laughs between;
And the light without, to the dark within,