Worn is the winter rug of white,
And in the snow-bare spots once more
Glimpses of faint green grass in sight, —
Spring's footprints on the floor.

Upon the sombre forest gates
A crimson flush the mornings catch,
The token of the Spring who waits
With finger on the latch.

Blow, bugles of the south, and win
The warders from their dreams too long,
And bid them let the new guest in
With her glad hosts of song.

She shall make bright the dismal ways
With broideries of bud and bloom,
With music fill the nights and days
And end the garden's gloom.

Her face is lovely with the sun;
Her voice — ah, listen to it now!
The silence of the year is done:
The bird is on the bough!

Spring here, — by what magician's touch?
'T was winter scarce an hour ago.
And yet I should have guessed as much, —
Those footprints in the snow!