When the violet blows,
Light the swallow plumes his wings,
Sweet the earliest robin sings;
Something dearer brings the rose.

Fairer forms are nigh,
When the rose is full and bright:
Ever shapes of softest light
Then in glancing flight go by.

From what clime are they?
From the wakened heart they rise,
Bright as hues of orient skies: —
Soon the vision flies away.