by Henry Timrod
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.
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.
But many gleam's and shadow's need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.
Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.
At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And bring, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate,
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from some beech's heart
A blue-eyed dryad, stepping forth, should say,
"Behold me! I am May!"
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