SPRING

Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,

And paint the gray, stark trees,

The bud, the leaf and wing —

Bring with thee brush and breeze.

And soft thy shading lay

On vale and woodland deep;

With sunshine's lovely ray

Light o'er the rugged steep.

More softly warm and weave

The patient, timid grass,

Till heard at silvery eve

Poor robin's lonely mass.

Bid faithful swallows come

And build their cozy nests,

Where wind nor storm can numb

Their downy little breasts.

Come at the sad heart's call,

To empty summer bowers,

Where still and dead are all

The vernal songs and flowers.

It may be months or years

Since joyous spring was there.

O come to clouds and tears

With light and song and prayer!