Frail children of the early spring,
We love you well ;
Ye seem to tell
By your rathe blossoming,
That time of leaf and bud and fruit is coming.
First-born are ye of all the flowers,
Ye gentle ones;
Sweet April runs
Her course of dewy hours
Heart-happy that she saw your early coming.
Close on late snows your blooms are seen,
Pale vernal things;
The robin sings,
The grass grows rainy-green,
And all the world awakens at your coming.
When golden June scents all the air
With her sweet rose,
And lovely glows
Each bed, we’ll still declare
Tis not more dear than was your springtime coming!
(John Russell Hayes)
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