ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



6l 



SPRING. 



SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air 

 Which dwells with all things fair, 

 Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 

 Is with us once again. 



Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 

 Its fragrant lamps, and turns 

 Into a royal court with green festoons 

 The banks of dark lagoons. 



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. 



Already, here and there, on frailest stems 

 Appear some azure gems, 

 Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 

 The forehead of a fay. 



In gardens you may note amid the dearth 

 The crocus breaking earth ; 



And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 

 The violet in its screen. 



But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 

 Along the budding grass, 



And weeks go by, before the enamored south 

 Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 



