The broken bow is healed,
The wind has lost its sting,
And life, long mute in farm and field,
Has many songs to sing.
Behold, how sweetly is revealed
The gentle nursing of the Spring.

The winter-tortured trees
Stand straight and free of pain;
Despairing rivers, left to freeze,
Are warmed to life again.
And all the sick world's agonies
Have torn the heart of earth in vain.

There is no grass that grows,
No freshet running clear,
There is no new-born bird but knows
The gladness of the year;
The bruise and burden of the snows
Have left the world without a tear.

Now Fancy tries its wing,
Now passions blush and start,
While even children, touched with Spring,
Whisper and walk apart.
And I—I am the only thing
Still bearing Winter in its heart.