Little laughter of the grass;
Clapping of soft, tiny hands;
Fleeting forms that come and pass
In relays of fairy bands;
And the birds upon the wing—
Tell the secret! It is Spring!
In the woods the dryades
Hear the sounding pipes of Pan,
Leave their temples of the trees
And return to haunts of man;
This the song they sweetly sing—
Ave! Ave! It is Spring!
Domed with sapphire is the sky;
Haze of opal hath the hills;
Brown the brooks that rushing by
Call to their companion rills;
These their joyous welcome bring—
Hail! All hail! For it is Spring!