The Garden Year

This is the day when, o’er the world,
Spring flings her golden robe, unfurled;
Each flower wakes, with smiles aglow,
In nooks and crannies, weeds, we sow.

The labor of the winters done,
A symphony of bloom begun;
Let gardens flourish, let songs be sung,
With every hue the spring has brung.

• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow