poems by mary baker eddy
53
SPRING
OME to thy bowers, sweet spring, And paint the gray, stark trees, The bud, the leaf and wing— Bring with thee brush and breeze. And soft thy shading lay On vale and woodland deep; With sunshine's lovely ray Light o'er the rugged steep.
More softly warm and weave The patient, timid grass, Till heard at silvery eve Poor robin's lonely mass.
Bid faithful swallows come And build their cozy nests, Where wind nor storm can numb Their downy little breasts.
Come at the sad heart's call, To empty summer bowers, Where still and dead are all The vernal songs and flowers.
