Ere the Spring comes near
O'er the smoking hills,
Stirring a million rills
To laughter low and clear
Till winds are hushed to hear,—
Ere the eaves at noon
Thaw and drip, there flies
A herald thro’ the skies
With promise of a boon —
Of birds and blossoms soon.
Subtle though it be,
Yet sweetly sure that word;
E'en such my heart hath heard
( Over life's frosty lea )
Of Immortality.