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!