Why falls so rich a spray br of fragrance from the bowers br of the balmy flowers br upon this festive day? br br Why from woods and vales br do we hear sweet measures ringing br that seem to be the singing br of a choir of nightingales? br br Why in the grass below br do birds start at the wind's noises, br unleashing their honeyed voices br as they hop from bough to bough? br br Why should the spring that glows br its crystalline murmur be tuning br to the zephyr's mellow crooning br as among the flowers it flows? br br Why seems to me more endearing, br more fair than on other days, br the dawn's enchanting face br among red clouds appearing? br br The reason, dear mother, is br they feast your day of bloom: br the rose with its perfume, br the bird with its harmonies. br br And the spring that rings with laughter br upon this joyful day br with its murmur seems to say: br 'Live happily ever after!' br br And from that spring in the grove br now turn to hear the first note br that from my lute I emote br to the impulse of my love.