Somewhere, far from the town,
The bluebird calls in the sky;
Through meadows warm and brown
Where the snowdrift lay so long,
The whitethroat tries his song,
And the little streams are high.

Far from the trampling street
The copses flush and glow;
The earth is newly sweet,
And the woods begin to wear
A soft, expectant air
That the Winter did not know.

Away from the jostling throng
There are little shining rills
Calling, the whole night long—
Calling the migrant wing,
Calling the timid Spring
Back to the waiting hills.

And the smoke-grimed city park
With its starveling trees and sod,
Caresses the secret mark
That the kiss of Springtime makes;
And the dandelion awakes
Where her dancing feet have trod.

The roaring street rolls by;
But above its sombre walls
Is the arch of April sky;
And still, through the loud-voiced streets,
A whispering wing-pulse beats—
Spring's migrant yearning calls!