Spring makes its own statement, so loud and clear that the gardener seems to be only one of the instruments, read more

Spring makes its own statement, so loud and clear that the gardener seems to be only one of the instruments, not the composer.

Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim read more

Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health have flown.

And the spring comes slowly up this way.

And the spring comes slowly up this way.

Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up read more

Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.

Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.

Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.

I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountain with light and song:
read more

I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountain with light and song:
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good example is followed. A single act read more

No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good example is followed. A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees. The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind themselves.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

They know who keep a broken tryst,
Till something from the Spring be missed
We have not read more

They know who keep a broken tryst,
Till something from the Spring be missed
We have not truly known the Spring.