‘ Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings
From slumber, as a sphered angel's child,
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,
Stands up before its mother bright and mild,
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems —
So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove
Waxed green — and flowers burst forth like starry beams;—
The grass in the warm sun did start and move,
And sea-buds burst under the waves serene:—
How many a one, though none be near to love,
Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen
In any mirror — or the spring's young minions,
The winged leaves amid the copses green;—
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,
And his own steps — and over wide dominions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms — the wide world shrinks below,
When winter and despondency are past.