Spring is come back, and the little voices are calling, br The birds are calling, the little green buds on the trees, br A song in the street, and an old and sleepy tune; br All the sounds of the spring are falling, falling, br Gentle as rain, on my heart, and I hear all these br As a sick man hears men talk from the heart of a swoon. br br The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, br The earth renews its magical youth at a breath, br And the whole world whispers a well-known, secret thing; br And I hear, but the meaning has faded out of the voices; br Something has died in my heart: is it death or sleep? br I know not, but I have forgotten the meaning of spring.