T HERE'S a boy, a little fellow,
And he's running in the rye—
Tumbled hair with tints of yellow;
All the color of the sky
Shining in the starry wonder of his deep and dreamy eye.

How he races, as he chases
First a gleaming butterfly,
Swift to follow then a swallow—
Dipping, floating, sailing by,
Skimming o'er the brimming billows of the undulating rye!

He is Spring-time, he is sing-time,
And the joy that grief has slain
Wells within me like a torrent
Till it purges me of pain—
And the passion that I bear him
Floods my heart with youth again!