The flowers anew returning seasons bring,But beauty faded has no second spring.

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

The year's at the spring,And day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn;God's in His heaven--All's right with the world !　

Is it so small a thingTo have enjoy'd the sun,To have lived light in the spring,To have loved, to have thought, to have done;

Listen, can you hear it? Spring's sweet cantata. The strains of grass pushing through the snow. The song of buds swelling on the vine. The tender timpani of a baby robin's heart. Spring.

O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day!

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring—When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrushThrough the echoing timber does so rinse and wringThe ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.