'Tis choosing time! Comes a quiverAlong the expectant air;There's a whir of wings, the sparrowsAre flitting everywhere.'Tis building time, and the songsterTrills, from the budding vine,To a tiny coquette of a sweetheart—He chants a valentine.
'Tis choosing time! There's a thrillingBeneath the sombre sod;The clover wakes and stretches,The blue bells wake and nod;The daffodil is donningHer gown of gold spun fine;Of the Iris tall and slenderShe's the chosen valentine.
'Tis wooing time. There's a wonderAstir in my eager breast,And a rush of passionate gladness—Of all things, love is the best.There's a query—who will answer,And whisper how I shall divineAnd know, as each of the sparrowsKnows his own valentine?
'Tis wooing time! I listen,With ear to the sensitive mould,To learn if his coming footstepsThe earth to the moss hath told.'Tis loving time! I am waiting;There 's a spell in the air like wine—Oh! heart, a herald is crying,"He cometh—thy valentine!"
Oh! heart of my heart, give answer;I swoon with a mad'ning delight,With agony sweet and compelling,With joy resistless in might.Oh! tell if they presage his coming,Oh! answer, give token or sign;My heart for his heart is waiting,Come swiftly, my valentine!
