ARE you the wondrous joy of Spring,
Sent coursing through the woods,
With chorals for the birds to sing,
And colors for the buds?
Or are you some supreme delight,
Which morn set free with mirth,
To carry gladness in your flight
All o’er the meads of earth?
What are you, Hebe, nymph or maid?
You start Spring in my heart
With blooms that time can never fade—
Rejuvenating art.
What witchery, like Spring, is this
You hold o’er me, sweet one?
You set me glowing with a kiss
With warmth of summer sun.
As winter thaws when spring comes in
With claims to warmth and growth,
So you from cold my soul doth win—
I rise from dreary hours and smile
At sorrow when you call,
And thrill with youthful yearnings while
Your blisses on me fall.
’Tis magic! ’Tis the art of joy,
Transforming way of Spring;
Her methods, Hebe, you employ
To make my young heart sing.