Soft is the air when first the robin sings
Among the budding elms, and far he flings
The bold, triumphant strain of other days
Across the field. How changed are all earth's ways;
What Floral beauty springs and bursts, and swells
In all her fields and lanes, and distant dells;
How birds, and brooks, and bees the whole day long
Flood all the walks of earth with happy song;
What subtle sweetness fills the fields and woods
When Nature recreates her solitude.
And in the street, upon the giant trees,
The young leaves rustle in their ecstacies,
Awhile the elms, by Springtime scantly dres't,
Stand grandly forth, half hidden, yet confessed.
Clarence Hawkes.