The silver buds are on the fir,
       The sweet is on the balm,
The orchards blossom white and slow,
       And thro’ the scented calm
The wild thrush-poet lifts to God
       His pure and lyric psalm.

The dogwood hangs her velvet stars
       The alder deeps within,
A brook draws down the forest ways
       Its laughter, sweet and thin,
And woodland minstrels blithely play
       Flute, pipe, and violin.

It is the perfect blossom time,
       The bloom of heart and year,
The earth aches with its rapture song,
       The wind-bells sweet and clear
Ring one low word that every heart
       Throbs full and strong to hear.