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The sunbeams, lost for half a year, Slant through my pane their morning rays; For dry northwesters cold and clear, The east blows in its thin blue haze. And first the snowdrop's bells are seen, Then, close against the sheltering wall, The tulip's horn of dusky green, The peony's dark unfolding ball. The golden-chaliced crocus burns; The long narcissus-blades appear; The corn-beaked hyacinth returns To light her blue-flamed chandelier. The elms have robed their slender spray With full-blown flower and embryo leaf; Wide o'er the clasping arch of day Soars like a cloud their hoary chief. When wake the violets, Winter dies; When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near; When lilacs blossom, Summer cries, "Bud, little roses! Spring is here!" |