Oft let me wander hand-in-hand with Thought
In woodland paths and lone sequestered shades,
What time the sunny banks and mossy glades,
With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought,
Into the air their fragrant incense fling,
To greet the triumph of the youthful spring.
Lo, where she comes! 'scaped from the icy lair
Of hoary winter; wanton, free, and fair!
Now smile the heavens again upon the earth;
Bright hill and bosky dell resound with mirth;
And voices full of laughter and wild glee
Shout through the air pregnant with harmony,
And wake poor sobbing Echo, who replies
With sleeping voice, that softly, slowly dies.