Hark! it is the robin crying,
He has heard the voice of Spring;
From the woods the crow is flying,
And the jay is on the wing.

Slowly now the sun is ranging
Each day nearer to the west;
All things tell the year is changing,
Nature wakens from her rest.

Lower sink the snow-drifts daily,
Half the pasture lands are bare;
And the little streams leap gayly
From their chains to breathe the air.

While the barren earth rejoices,
Care-worn mortal, come away,—
Listen to the pleasant voices
Of the resurrection day.

Dost thou understand the token?
Nature should not teach in vain
What its gracious Lord hath spoken—
That the dead shall live again!