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Soon shall the winter’s foil be here;

Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt — A little while,

And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and

growth — a thousand forms shall rise

From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.

Thine eyes, ears — all thy best attributes — all that takes cognizance

of natural beauty,

Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the

delicate miracles of earth,

Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers,

The arbutus under foot, the willow’s yellow-green, the blossoming

plum and cherry;

With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs — the

flitting bluebird;

For such the scenes the annual play brings on.