THE winter winds are gone;
Fresh dews and summer showers,
Green grass and blooming flowers,
Brighten the pleasant lawn.

Come, see the springing corn;
Come, hear the soft birds singing;
Come, hear their music ringing
At crimson eve and morn.

Come to the land of song,—
The land of sweetest fragrance
Where pleasure throws its radiance,
And music floats along.

Up to the hill-tops come,
Where bloom the tasselled flowers,
And spring, with freshened flowers,
Raises its insect hum.