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SONNET.
WHEN Flora, on her fairy wings,
Her magic wand o'er earth does wave,
The spirits of ten thousand springs
Arise reanimate from their grave,
The brook his icy boundary breaks
And rushes foaming as of old,
The crocus from the sunbeam takes
The light which makes its chalice glowing gold.
Half hidden by a sheltering tree
The purple violet blows,
And trailing o'er the mossy lea
The star of the arbutus grows.
From a thousand wood-birds' swelling throats, the notes come glad and free,
Praising their Creator on high, in Nature's glorious symphony.
Her magic wand o'er earth does wave,
The spirits of ten thousand springs
Arise reanimate from their grave,
The brook his icy boundary breaks
And rushes foaming as of old,
The crocus from the sunbeam takes
The light which makes its chalice glowing gold.
Half hidden by a sheltering tree
The purple violet blows,
And trailing o'er the mossy lea
The star of the arbutus grows.
From a thousand wood-birds' swelling throats, the notes come glad and free,
Praising their Creator on high, in Nature's glorious symphony.
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