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!