PARTRIDGE-BERRY, 



MITCHELLA REPENS L. 



SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air 

 Which dwells with all things fair, 



Spring, with her golden sun and silver rain, 

 Is with us once again. 



In the deep heart of every forest tree 



The blood is all aglee, 

 And there's a look about the leafless bowers 



As if they dreamed of flowers. 



Yet still on every side we trace the hand 



Of winter in the land, 

 Save where the maple reddens on the lawn 



Flushed by the season's dawn. 



Or where, like those strange semblances we find 



That age to childhood bind, 

 The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 



The brown of autumn corn. 



As yet the turf is dark, although you know 



That, not a span below, 

 A thousand germs are groping through the gloom 



And soon will burst their tomb. 



Henry Tim rod. 



[33] 



