WHEN Spring comes tripping o'er the lea
And grasses start to meet her,
The bluebird sings
With quivering wings
Brief rhapsodies to greet her,
And deems—fond minstrel!—none may be,
The wide world over, blithe as he.
And where the brooklet tinkles by,
And the yellow-snowdrop dances,
And windflowers frail
And bloodroots pale
Lift up appealing glances,
The flute-voiced meadow-lark on high
Sings, "None on earth is glad as I!"
Laughs Corydon, "Your hearts are bold,
Yet little ye can measure,
Poor, silly birds,
Spring's sweetest words,
Or guess at my proud pleasure,
When Phyllis comes, and all the wold,
For sudden joy, buds into gold!"