Now that the Winter's gone, the earth hath lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or calls an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbÈd earth,

And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth

To the glad swallow; wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee;

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world the youthful Spring;

And valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,

Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.

'Tis silence all,

And pleasing expectation.

Even mountains, vales,

And forests, seem impatient to demand

The promised sweetness. Man superior walks

Amid the glad creation, musing praise,

And looking lively gratitude.