Sing, sing,

Spring and birth!

A maid shall be mother of all the earth.

Winter's bones lie bare and bleak,

Scattered white on the mountain peak.

Through stark woods the Madonna Spring

Glides with her unborn offering.

Where she treads dead flowers stir

And raise their heads to gaze after her,

And trees make dense their boughs with green

That her motherhood may not be seen.

Summer lies hid 'neath her girlish breast;

Till her babe is bom she shall find no rest.

Yet is she glad in her wandering

And weaves meek songs 'gainst her mothering.

Birth, birth,

Lave and mirth!

Spring is Madonna of all the earth.