Her wondrous works on every side,
In bud and flower, on bush and tree,
At morning's blush, at eventide; -
There is no spot, no solitude,
Where her fair hand does not intrude.
Dark rocks that yesterday were bare,
And dreary as the wintry sea,
Her spell has touched, lightly as air,
And decked with verdant tracery;
Out of the earth she calleth up
The daisy and the buttercup.
Sad, songless snow-birds wander far;
Gay songs new-comers wildly sing;
Bright cowslips, each a golden star,
Are in the meadows glimmering; -