Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair,
     And her blue eye the brighter the more it may weep: 
     The frog and the butterfly wake from their sleep,
     Each to its element, water and air.

     Mist hangs still on every hill,
     And curls up the valleys at eve; but noon
     Is fullest of Spring; and at midnight the moon
     Gives her westering throne to Orion’s bright zone,
     As he slopes o’er the darkened world’s repose;
     And a lustre in eastern Sirius glows.

     Come, in the season of opening buds;
     Come, and molest not the otter that whistles
     Unlit by the moon, ’mid the wet winter bristles
     Of willow, half-drowned in the fattening floods. 
     Let him catch his cold fish without fear of a gun,
     And the stars shall shield him, and thou wilt shun! 
     And every little bird under the sun
     Shall know that the bounty of Spring doth dwell
     In the winds that blow, in the waters that run,
     And in the breast of man as well.

     The sweet O’ the year

     Now the frog, all lean and weak,
     Yawning from his famished sleep,
     Water in the ditch doth seek,
     Fast as he can stretch and leap: 
     Marshy king-cups burning near
     Tell him ‘tis the sweet o’ the year.

     Now the ant works up his mound
     In the mouldered piny soil,
     And above the busy ground
     Takes the joy of earnest toil: 
     Dropping pine-cones, dry and sere,
     Warn him ‘tis the sweet o’ the year.

     Now the chrysalis on the wall
     Cracks, and out the creature springs,
     Raptures in his body small,
     Wonders on his dusty wings: 
     Bells and cups, all shining clear,
     Show him ‘tis the sweet o’ the year.

     Now the brown bee, wild and wise,
     Hums abroad, and roves and roams,
     Storing in his wealthy thighs
     Treasure for the golden combs: 
     Dewy buds and blossoms dear
     Whisper ‘tis the sweet o’ the year.

     Now the merry maids so fair
     Weave the wreaths and choose the queen,
     Blooming in the open air,
     Like fresh flowers upon the green;
     Spring, in every thought sincere,
     Thrills them with the sweet o’ the year.

     Now the lads, all quick and gay,
     Whistle to the browsing herds,
     Or in the twilight pastures grey
     Learn the use of whispered words: 
     First a blush, and then a tear,
     And then a smile, i’ the sweet o’ the year.

     Now the May-fly and the fish
     Play again from noon to night;
     Every breeze begets a wish,
     Every motion means delight: 
     Heaven high over heath and mere
     Crowns with blue the sweet o’ the year.