The springtime's pallid landscape Will glow like bright bouquet, Though drifted deep in parian The village lies to-day.

The lilacs, bending many a year, With purple load will hang; The bees will not forget the tune Their old forefathers sang.

The rose will redden in the bog, The aster on the hill Her everlasting fashion set, And covenant gentians frill,

Till summer folds her miracle As women do their gown, Or priests adjust the symbols When sacrament is done.