P from the Southland the sweet Spring is stealing;

Up by the brooksides and over the fields!

Valiant old Winter goes scuttling before her;

Force which has ruled us reluctantly yields.

Where is Spring’s pathway? ’Tis everywhere round us!

Over the hillsides and over the plains.

Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until

Never a vestige of Winter remains.

Isn’t there ever a corner forgotten,

Far to the eastward or far to the west?

Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow,

Some quiet woodland away from the rest?

Never a hillside or valley forgotten;

No little corner unkist by the Spring;

Each little bush has been touched and awakened,

Each little robin is trying to sing.

In through the depths of the woodland she’s stealing,

Seeking and finding each little live thing,

Waiting so surely the thrill of her coming—

Joy universal—the Coming of Spring!