Whence is yonder flower so strangely bright?

All the woodland path is broken By warm tints along the way, And the low and sunny slope Is alive with sudden hope When there comes the silent token Of an April day,—

Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait. Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,—

The Autumn wood the aster knows, The empty nest, the wind that grieves, The sunlight breaking thro' the shade, The squirrel chattering overhead, The timid rabbits lighter tread Among the rustling leaves.

I love the fair lilies and roses so gay, They are rich in their pride and their splendor; But still more do I love to wander away To the meadow so sweet, Where down at my feet, The harebell blooms modest and tender.

And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red.

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.