  Wooed by thy balmy breath, O witching Spring. The woodland nymphs are charming us anew, And yon blue dome acquires a richer hue. Waked from its winter's sleep on gauzy wing, The butterfly flits past no more to cling A slave forlorn to some enamored branch. How joyfully the laughing lilies launch Their dainty barques; they safe at anchor swing In many a sylvan nook. Swift and free The swallow skims athwart the river's breast A burnished emblem of the glancing sea Which ever glimmers in a vague unrest:— An image beautiful, content to be |
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