What time hoar Winter with his icy breath
Flees from the presence of the coming Spring,
And the flowers waken from their gelid death
To breathe their odors on the zephyr’s wing,
While shrilly through the budding forests ring
Notes from a thousand singing-birds, ‘tis joy
To leave the strifes and tumults which annoy
The worn heart in the haunts of men, and fling
Care, like a garment, from us—that a sense
Of Nature’s harmony may pervade the soul,
And winning with its witching eloquence,
Subject the passions to her mild control.
So shall a peace resembling that of heaven,
To the tired heart that prays for rest, be given!
