William Ellery Channing (1818–1901)

WITH the rush and whirl of the fleet wild brook,

And the leap of the deer thro’ the deep wild wood,

And the eyes of the flowers with that gentle look

That shines in the hearts of the truly good,

Dost thou refresh my weary mood.

And chantest thy hymn in the forest old,

Where the buds of the trees and their hearts of fire

Start to the song of thy harps of gold

As the maiden with a timid desire

At the thrill of her love’s soft lyre.

Thou passest thy hand o’er the yellow fields

With a light caress like a mother’s smile,

And the bright, soft grass to thy impulse yields

The green of its life that has slept the while;

Sweet Spring! Thou knowest many a wile.

And joyfully, Spring, I welcome thee down

To the heavy hearts of my fellow-men;

To the windows dark of the thick-built town,

And the scholar who sits with his tiresome pen,

In the shadow of his den.

Frolic, sweet flowers, along the wall-side,

Along the roadway where the foot-path goes,

And, ferns, in the pines where the rivers glide,

Be as cheerful as where the musk-rose blows,

And gay as a child each thing that grows.