By M. B. Glover
Come 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 lonely ray Light o'er the rugged steep
More swiftly warm and weave The timid patient 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
Over
Come at the sad hearts' call To empty summer bowers Where still and dead are all The vernal songs and flowers
It may be months or years Since joyous spring was there O come to clouds and tears With light and song and prayer