SPRINGTIME

Hushed are the storms of winter,
Its icy breath withdraw;
New birds and flowers and sunshine
Bespeak a fairer dawn;
Grey skies and mists now vanished
Reveal a fair view;
And distant hills once snow clad,
Assume their summer hue.

The little lambs in innocence
Around their mothers sport;
And the bees are seeking honey,
From flowers of every sort;
With graceful note the cuckoo,
Proclaims the summer nigh;
While flits from flower to flower,
The gentle butterfly.

With hopeful heart, the farmer
Puts good seed in the soil,
And trusts a splendid harvest
Shall soon reward his toil;
Nor is he disappointed,
For nature lends her aid,
And blesses with abundance
The efforts he has made.

Then ‘mid such scenes of beauty
What mortal dare repine?
Or say that life’s a burden
And wish an end of time,
Nay, rather let us labour,
With thankful hearts and true,
Since not alone we’re toiling,
For nature worketh too.

Henry Calderwood, Pottinger Street, Cullybackey, May 1926