Now the full-throated daffodils,
Our trumpeters in gold,
Call resurrection from the ground
And bid the year be told.
To-day the almond-tree turns pink,
The first flush of spring;
Winds loll and gossip through the town
Her secret whispering.
Now too the bird must try his voice
Upon the morning air;
Down drowsy avenues he cries
A novel great affair.
He tells of royalty to be;
How with her train of rose,
Summer to coronation come
Through waving hedgerows.
To-day crowds quicken in a street,
The fish leaps in the flood:
Look there, gasometer rises,
And here bough swells to bud.
For our love's lock, our stowaway,
Stretches in his cabin;
Our youngster joy barely conceived
Shows up beneath the skin.
Our joy was but a gusty thing
Without sinew or wit,
An infant flyaway; but now
We make a man of it.
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