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| THE WORLD’S running over with color, | |
| With whispers, strange fervors and April— | |
| There’s a smell in the air as if meadows | |
| Were under our feet. | |
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| Spring smiles at the commonest waysides; | 5 |
| But she pours out her heart to the city, | |
| As one woman might to another | |
| Who meet after years … | |
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| Restless with color and perfume, | |
| The streets are a riot of blossoms. | 10 |
| What garden could boast of such flowers— | |
| Not Eden itself. | |
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| Primroses, pinks and gardenias, | |
| Shame the grey town and its squalor— | |
| Windows are naming with jonquils; | 15 |
| Fires of gold! | |
| |
| Out of a florist’s some pansies | |
| Peer at the crowd, like the faces | |
| Of solemnly mischievous children | |
| Going to bed … | 20 |
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| And women—Spring’s favorite children— | |
| Frail and phantastically fashioned, | |
| Pass like a race of immortals, | |
| Too radiant for earth. | |
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| The pale and the drab are transfigured, | 25 |
| They sing themselves into the sunshine— | |
| Every girl is a lyric, | |
| An urge and a lure. | |
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| And, like a challenge of trumpets, | |
| The Spring and its impulse goes through me— | 30 |
| Breezes and flowers and people | |
| Sing in my blood … | |
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| Breezes and flowers and people— | |
| And under it all, oh belovèd, | |
| Out of the song and the sunshine, | 35 |
| Rises your face! | |
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