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THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING. 57
The bird sings not so sweetly, The balmy zephyr's breath
Is not so full of music,
Since Theron slept in death.
The flowers are not so lovely
That open to the day, Nor are they half so fragrant,
Since Theron pass'd away.
THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING.
Softly the morn-beams through shadows are stealing, Brightening the diamonds that hang on each spray; Spring's sweetest charms in its radiance revealing, Quickening the life-pulse along my way.
The robin doth greet me with wild, wild hymnings, Bearing aloft his Creator's praise;
But what to me are all nature's bright limnings ? And what to me are the wood-bird's lays ?
One sweet attraction now spell-bound holds me;
One object claims my attention nowó Though Spring with its beautiful wings enfold me,
My heart is dead to aught else below.