'Tis choosing time! Comes a quiver Along the expectant air; There's a whir of wings, the sparrows Are flitting everywhere. 'Tis building time, and the songster Trills, from the budding vine, To a tiny coquette of a sweetheart— He chants a valentine.
'Tis choosing time! There's a thrilling Beneath the sombre sod; The clover wakes and stretches, The blue bells wake and nod; The daffodil is donning Her gown of gold spun fine; Of the Iris tall and slender She's the chosen valentine.
'Tis wooing time. There's a wonder Astir 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 divine And know, as each of the sparrows Knows his own valentine?
'Tis wooing time! I listen, With ear to the sensitive mould, To learn if his coming footsteps The 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!
