Little laughter of the grass;
Clapping of soft, tiny hands;
Fleeting forms that come and pass
In relays of fairy bands;
And the birds upon the wing —
Tell the secret! It is Spring!
In the woods the dryades
Hear the sounding pipes of Pan,
Leave their temples of the trees
And return to haunts of man;
This the song they sweetly sing —
Ave! Ave! It is Spring!
Domed with sapphire is the sky;
Haze of opal hath the hills;
Brown the brooks that rushing by
Call to their companion rills;
These their joyous welcome bring —
Hail! All hail! For it is Spring!