A delicate odor is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odor of leaves, and of grass, and of newly upturned
earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees,
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of
Spring,
And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing brier,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of
love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of
green
And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris
sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a
dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing a-down the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.
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