The Flute of Spring

I know a shining meadow stream

That winds beneath an Eastern hill,

And all year long in sun or gloom

Its murmuring voice is never still.

The summer dies more gently there,

The April flowers are earlier,—

The first warm rain-wind from the Sound

Sets all their eager hearts astir.

And there when lengthening twilights fall

As softly as a wild bird's wing,

Across the valley in the dusk

I hear the silver flute of spring.