NOW are the days of open weather.
When clods cleave at the grassblades' prick:
When sun and rain coquette together,
And dead things vanish before quick.
When nests are new, and orchard branches
Like mimic Alps pile snow on snow,
Until their fragrant avalanches
Descend and drift the world below.

Tulip and crocus in the garden
A gentle rivalry declare.
Each, sans apology or pardon,
Striving her eager heart to bare.—
Dainty comediennes, playing frankly
For fond applause of earth and sky
Where, late, but barren mould stared blankly
To taunt the anxious passer-by.—

The tender air, through open casements.
Announces "Spring!" to hidden souls
Pent in high garrets and foul basements,
Giving them dreams in place of doles.
A thousand street sounds, too, it carries—
Hoarse huckster-calls and peddler-pleas—
Into the hush of homes, and marries
The working world to that of ease.

Now are the days of open weather.
When Spring unlocks the tide of life;
When sap and blood bound free together,
And men forget their market strife.
For once all beings meet and mingle,
Hope holding sway without, within;
And hearts unclose with impulse single,
And all the burgeoning world is kin!