Again the blackbirds sings; the streams / Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, / And tremble in the April showers / The tassels of the maple flowers.

The fixed star of his faith, through all / Loss, doubt, and peril, shone the same; / As through a night of storm, some tall, / Strong lighthouse lifts its steady flame.

A lover's claim is mine on all / I see to have and hold,-- / The rose-light of perpetual hills / And sunsets never cold!

The sunset fires will burn / The flowers will blow, the river flow / When I no more return.

Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing / Under the sky's gray arch; / Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing / It is the wind of March.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, / Beneath the sun of May, / And frightened from our sprouting grain / The robber crows away.

Drop thy still dews of quietness / Till all our strivings cease; / Take from our soul the strain and stress,/ And let our ordered lives confess / The beauty of thy peace.

The settler saw his oaken flail / Take bud, and bloom before his eyes / From frozen pools he saw the pale / Sweet summer lilies rise.

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard! / Heap high the golden corn! / No richer gift has Autumn poured / From out her lavish horn!

The end has come, as come it must / To all things; in these sweet June days / The teacher and the scholar trust / Their parting feet to separate ways.