  When the ash-tree buds and the maples, And the osier wands are red, And the fairy sunlight dapples Dales where the leaves are spread, The pools are full of spring water, Winter is dead. And the lithe brooks run, And the violets gleam and spangle The glades in the golden sun, The showers are bright as the sunlight, April has won. When the color is free in the grasses, And the martins whip the mere, And the Maryland-yellow-throat passes, With his whistle quick and clear, The willow is full of catkins; May is here. Then cut a reed by the river, Make a song beneath the lime, And blow with your lips a-quiver, While your sweetheart carols the rhyme; The glamour of love, the lyric of life, The springtime—the springtime.
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