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.