Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me,
The blue-bells beckon each passing bee.
The wild wood laughs to the flowered year,
There is no bird in brake or brere,
But to his little mate sings he:
"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me!"
The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear,
The [missel-thrush]1 upon the tree
Pipes for [mere]2 gladness, loud and free.
And I go singing to my dear:
"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me."