O STRANGE sweet season of up-heaving birth, 

 O oft-returning miracle of grace, 

 To whose eternal forces still we trace 



Life s yearly ebb and flow, the newest joy of earth ! 



No weight of ages on her swelling breast 



Can dull the keen delight of opening Spring ; 

 Fresh from a living hope the blue-birds sing, 



The wild March winds wake still a chord of deep 

 unrest. 



The pulse of being mounting high and higher, 

 Life throbs anew at every bosom s core, 

 We give ourselves to Nature s arms once more, 



And yield to her control our unfulfilled desire ! 



Lo ! wind and rain are striving in her voice, 



O 



She bares her bosom to the ardent sun, 

 And we must feel her victories lost and won 

 Ere in her riper gains our eager hearts rejoice. 



ii 



