From the ice they are freed, the stream and brook, By the Spring’s enlivening, lovely look; The valley’s green with joys of hope; The Winter old and weak ascends Back to the rugged mountain slope. From there, as he flees, he downward sends An impotent shower of icy hail Streaking over the verdant vale. Ah! but the Sun will suffer no white, Growth and formation stir everywhere, ’Twould fain with colours make all things bright, Though in the landscape are no blossoms fair. Instead it takes gay-decked humanity.