The spring-tide hour

Brings leaf and flower,

With songs of life and love;

And many a lay

Wears out the day

In many a leafy grove.

Bird, flower, and tree,

Seem to agree

Their choicest gifts to bring;

But this poor heart

Bears not its part,

In it there is no spring.

2 Dews fall apace,

The dews of grace,

Upon this soul of sin;

And love divine

Delights to shine

Upon the waste within:

Yet year by year,

Fruits, flowers, appear,

And birds their praises sing;

But this poor heart

Bears not its part,

Its winter has no spring.

3 Lord, let thy love,

Fresh from above,

Soft as the south-wind blow!

Call forth its bloom,

Wake its perfume,

And bid its spices flow!

And when thy voice

Makes earth rejoice,

And the hills laugh and sing,

Lord! make this heart

To bear its part,

And join the praise of spring!