Chapter 8
The Spring by Mary Howitt. Read for LibriVox.org by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The Spring, she is a blessed thing. She is the mother of the flowers. She is the mate of birds and bees, the partner of their revelries, our star of hope through wintry hours. The many children, when they see her coming by the budding thorn. They leap upon the cottage floor, they show beside the cottage door, and run to meet her night and morn.
They are soonest with her in the woods, peeping the withered leaves among, to find the earliest fragrant thing that dares from the cold earth to spring, or catch the earliest wild bird song. The little brooks run on in light as if they had a chase of mirth.
The skies are blue, the air is balm. Our very hearts have caught the charm that sheds a beauty over earth. She comes with more than present good with joys to store for future years
from which is striving crowds apart. the bold in spirit bruised in heart may glean up hopes with grateful tears up let us to the fields away and breathe the fresh and balmy air the bird is building in the tree the flower has opened to the bee and health and love and peace are there end of poem this recording is in the public domain
