Merrily, cheerily, joyously still
     Pours out the crimson-crested tide. 
     The set of the season burns bright on the hill,
     Where the foliage dead falls yellow and red,
     Picturing vainly, but foretelling plainly
     The wealth of cottage warmth that comes
     When the frost gleams and the blood numbs,
     And then, bonny Robin, I’ll spread thee out crumbs
     In my garden porch for thy redbreast pride,
     The song and the ensign of dear fireside.

     Song

     The daisy now is out upon the green;
     And in the grassy lanes
     The child of April rains,
     The sweet fresh-hearted violet, is smelt and loved unseen.

     Along the brooks and meads, the daffodil
     Its yellow richness spreads,
     And by the fountain-heads
     Of rivers, cowslips cluster round, and over every hill.

     The crocus and the primrose may have gone,
     The snowdrop may be low,
     But soon the purple glow
     Of hyacinths will fill the copse, and lilies watch the dawn.

     And in the sweetness of the budding year,
     The cuckoo’s woodland call,
     The skylark over all,
     And then at eve, the nightingale, is doubly sweet and dear.

     My soul is singing with the happy birds,
     And all my human powers
     Are blooming with the flowers,
     My foot is on the fields and downs, among the flocks and herds.

     Deep in the forest where the foliage droops,
     I wander, fill’d with joy. 
     Again as when a boy,
     The sunny vistas tempt me on with dim delicious hopes.

     The sunny vistas, dim with hurrying shade,
     And old romantic haze:-
     Again as in past days,
     The spirit of immortal Spring doth every sense pervade.

     Oh! do not say that this will ever cease; —
     This joy of woods and fields,
     This youth that nature yields,
     Will never speak to me in vain, tho’ soundly rapt in peace.

     Sunrise

     The clouds are withdrawn
     And their thin-rippled mist,
     That stream’d o’er the lawn
     To the drowsy-eyed west. 
     Cold and grey
     They slept in the way,
     And shrank from the ray
     Of the chariot East: 
     But now they are gone,
     And the bounding light
     Leaps thro’ the bars
     Of doubtful dawn;
     Blinding the stars,
     And blessing the sight;
     Shedding delight
     On all below;
     Glimmering fields,
     And wakening wealds,
     And rising lark,
     And meadows dark,
     And idle rills,
     And labouring mills,
     And far-distant hills
     Of the fawn and the doe. 
     The sun is cheered
     And his path is cleared,
     As he steps to the air
     From his emerald cave,
     His heel in the wave,