English poem
A SONG OF SPRING
by Robert Winkworth Norwood (1874–1932)
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!