It is the spring! prepare the seeds,
And tender plants, new bloom to show;
Turn the rich earth; pull up the weeds;
And clear each cumbered garden row!
Waste not the wealth of April showers,
Nor sunshine, which our need befriends;
Think! on these evanescent hours
The harvest of the year depends.
Already, necklaces of buds
Adorn the sapling's tender stem;
And firs, bedewed with diamond studs,
Rear up a greener diadem.
Already, gleams of colour break
Where all was black with thorns before;
And gentle waves sweet murmur make,
Slow rippling to the silent shore!
Nor only dumb, quiescent things
The spell that broods amongst them own;
The beaten air is full of wings,
Earth thrills with many an insect tone:
God's woodland innocents prepare,
For gladder days and fresher life;
Close sits the timorous brooding hare,
With wooing birds the boughs are rife.
All nature wakes from wintry sleep,
Throws off her veil of frosty rime,
And calls from mead and mountain steep,
"Now is the time; now is the time,
Now is the hour of golden prime!"
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