Early Spring

Quick through the gates of Fairyland

The South Wind forced his way.

‘ Twas his to make the Earth forget

Her grief of yesterday.

“‘ Tis mine,” cried he, “to bring her joy!”

And on his lightsome feet

In haste he slung the snowdrop bells,

Pushed past the Fairy sentinels,

And out with laughter sweet.

Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on

The shining way he went.

He whispered to the trees strange tales

Of wondrous sweet intent,

When, suddenly, his witching voice

With timbre rich and rare,

Rang through the woodlands till it cleft

Earth's silent solitudes, and left

A Dream of Roses there!