From the elm-tree's topmost bough,
Hark! the Robin's early song!
Telling one and all that now
Merry spring-time hastes along;
Welcome tidings dost thou bring
Little harbinger of spring,
Of the winter we are weary,
Weary of the frost and snow.
Longing for the sunshine cheery,
And the brooklet's gurgling flow;
Gladly then we hear thee sing
The reveille of spring,
Ring it out o'er hill and plain,
Through the garden's lovely bowers,
Till the green leaves dance again,
Till the air is sweet with flowers!
Wake the cowslips by the rill,
Wake the yellow daffodil!
William W. Caldwell
When blustering March has gentler grown,
A mild day surely brings
A little bird of olive brown,
With dusky head and wings,
And soft white breast.
He's journeyed north
Without his well-loved mate;
Dejectedly upon a twig
Or fence-post, he'll await
Her coming; then contentedly
They'll seek some sheltered nook,
Beneath a bridge, perchance, and build
Above a murmuring brook.
Hear him now,
From the pussy-willow bough!