Spring's Saraband

Over the hills of April With soft winds hand in hand, Impassionate and dreamy-eyed, Spring leads her saraband. Her garments float and gather And swirl along the plain, Her headgear is the golden sun, Her cloak the silver rain. With colour and with music, With perfumes and with pomp, By meadowland and upland, Through pasture, wood, and swamp, With promise and enchantment Leading her mystic mime, She comes to lure the world anew With joy as old as time. Quick lifts the marshy chorus To transport, trill on trill; There's not a rod of stony ground Unanswering on the hill. The brooks and little rivers Dance down their wild ravines, And children in the city squares Keep time, to tambourines. The blue bird in the orchard Is lyrical for her, The starling with his meadow pipe Sets all the wood astir, The hooded white spring-beauties Are curtsying in the breeze, The blue hepaticas are out Under the chestnut trees. The maple buds make glamour Vibernum waves its bloom, The daffodils and tulips Are risen from the tomb. The lances of narcissus Have pierced the wintry mold; The commonplace seems paradise To veils of greening gold. O hark, hear thou the summons, Put every grief away, When all the motley masques of earth Are glad upon a day. Alack, that any mortal Should less than gladness bring Into the choral joy that sounds The saraband of spring!