"Come forth, ye blossoms! --over hill and lea,
A breathe of sweetness wantons with the sea;
And mid the smiles and tears of tender Spring,
On dripping boughs I heard the throstle sing:
Ye cups and stars that strew the fair, green field,
Ye wings of gold the prickly gorses yield;
Ye pensive bells to purple pageants born,
Ye milk-white may-buds of the mantling thorn,
Ye violet gems and eyes of sapphire blue;
Wan, flushing wind-flowers and shy elfin crew
Of every crannied wall, --come forth!-- and fling
Your vernal showers around me while I sing;"

'A Song of Salutation'  E.M.Holden