Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now 
The voice can reach no blending minors near; 
'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here 
And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough; 
'Tis the spring joy that has no why or how, 
But sees the sun and hopes not nor can fear-- 
Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year. 
Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou. 

Oh music of my heart, be thus for long: 
Too soon the spring bird learns the later song; 
Too soon a sadder sweetness slays content 
Too soon! There comes new light on onward day, 
There comes new perfume o'er a rosier way: 
Comes not again the young spring joy that went.