The geysers are burning the grass, the trees, While the winds come racing, and whirl, and tease, But there’s nothing so sweet as a voice that calls, Yet I feel your voice kissing the hills and the thralls.

I hear them in springtime, where daisies lie, And somewhere the cuckoo will sing out its cry, For the robin, watchtowers, in every tree, Like an omen drawn near, will awaken the bee.

And the banks sprout the lily while lilies are fair, Where violets twinkle a long belated lair; Courage is mine, there’s a whisper of thrill, Where the clouds bring the dusky shade on the hill.

• William Wordsworth