  The winds that on the uplands softly lie, Grow keener where the ice is lingering still, Where the first robin on the sheltered hill Pipes blithely to the tune, “When Spring goes by!” Hear him again, “Spring! Spring!” he seems to cry, Haunting the fall of the flute-throated rill, That keeps a gentle, constant, silver thrill, While he is restless in his ecstasy. Ah! the soft budding of the virginal woods, Of the frail fruit trees by the vanishing lakes: There’s the new moon where the clear sunset floods, A trace of dew upon the rose leaf sky; And hark! what rapture the glad robin wakes— “When Spring goes by; Spring! Spring! When Spring goes by.”
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