The days are ended
Of winter long;
The branches quiver
With living song.

The breeze in beauty
Arrays the rose
As from the river
It gently blows.

The tulip’s lantern
In desert bare
Is fanned to brightness,
By the spring air.

Sad, mid the roses,
My heart doth dwell,
Yea, from the meadow
Flees the gazelle;

A little cases
With grief and pain
Or like a bill-stream
Laments again.

Lest my heart’s passion
May softer grow,
Not to the trusty
I’ll tell my woe.