The linnet in the hawthorn bush Her last wee egg has not yet hatched, Though it is May: But see, the nesting mother thrush, By loving mate so proudly watched, Comes forth to-day! A veil of fresh translucent green, A-gleam with opal sparks of dew, Is the array Most meet for dainty Spring, I ween, When all her pretty nymphs anew Troop forth in May. Immortal Spring! for ever fair, Her dews and new-born buds among— Her gardens gay— Her callow birds in leafy lair, And all the beauty, fresh and young, She brings in May! “Thank God for Spring—thank God for all The stirring of new hope it brings,” Each year I say— When orchards bloom, and cuckoos call, And all the land with rapture rings— “Thank God for May.”