darling's pathway bright,
As through the summer night
  She comes to me.

No beam of any star
  Can match her eyes;
Her smile the bursting day
  In light outvies.
Her voice—the sweetest thing
Heard by the raptured spring
When waking wild-woods ring—
  She comes to me.

Ye stars, more swiftly wheel,
  O'er earth's still breast;
More wildly plunge and reel
  In the dim west!
The earth is lone and lorn,
Till the glad day be born,
Till with the happy morn
  She comes to me.

To Flora

When April woke the drowsy flowers,
  And vagrant odors thronged the breeze,
And bluebirds wrangled in the bowers,
  And daisies flashed along the leas,
And faint arbutus strove among
  Dead winter's leaf-strewn wreck to rise,
And nature's sweetly jubilant song
  Went murmuring up the sunny skies,
Into this cheerful world you came,
And gained by right your vernal name.

I think the springs have changed of late,
  For "Arctics" are my daily wear,
The skies are turned to cold gray slate,
  And zephyrs are but draughts of air;
But you make up whatever we lack,
  When we, too rarely, come together,
More potent than the almanac,
  You bring the ideal April weather;
When you are with us we defy
The blustering air, the lowering sky;
In spite of Winter's icy darts,
We've spring and sunshine in our hearts.