O thrush, is it true?
Your song tells Of a world born anew, Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue With hyacinth bells;
Of primroses deep In the moss of the lane, Of a Princess asleep And dear magic to do.
Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true?
Will Spring come again?
Will Spring come again?
Now at last With soft shine and rain Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain?
Will Winter be past?
In the brown of the copse Will white wind-flowers star through Where the last oak-leaf drops?
Will the daisies come too, And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again?
O thrush, is it true?
