Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,
Before those lays from the elm have ceased:
The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly
As in the air of her native east.

Though many a flower in the wood is waking,
The daffodil is our doorside queen;
She pushes upward the sward already,
To spot with sunshine the early green.
No lays so joyous as these are warbled

From wiry prison in maiden's bower;

No pampered bloom of the greenhouse chamber
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days,

Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

A VIOLIN MOOD

BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

TO-DAY the sense of spring fills all my frame,
And, thrilling, stirs and throbs in me as when
The sap began to course like liquid flame

In March in my old tree-home far from men.
And now my voice grows warm and rich again
And full of vibrant, vernal murmuring,
Re-echoing bird-notes out of brake and fen

That tell of youth and young love on the wing And all the thousand joyous mysteries of Spring.

SPRING*

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

IN ALL climates spring is beautiful. The birds begin to sing; they utter a few joyful notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighboring marshes. They, too, belong to the orchestra of nature, whose vast theater is again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost like cobwebs. This is the prelude which announces the opening of the scene. Already the grass shoots forth, the waters leap with thrilling force through the veins of the earth, the sap through the veins of the plants and trees, and the blood through the veins of man. What a thrill of delight in springtime! What a joy in being and moving! Men are at work in gardens, and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and blush. The white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snowflakes; and ere long our next-door neighbor will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage. The

* By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Mayflowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are let loose in the fields and gardens. They hold buttercups under each other's chins, to see if they love butter. And the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them at home. And at night so cloudless and so still! Not a voice of living thing - not a whisper of leaf or waving bough—not a breath of wind- not a sound upon the earth or in the air! And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars like the inverted bell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance. Or, if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain, but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep, but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain.

APRIL DAYS

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

From In Memoriam

DIP down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new year delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping wells of fire.
O thou, new year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat with song.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played;
Their thoughts I cannot measure
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?