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Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quivers, To revive the days that were.

I do not know beneath what sky nor on what seas shall be thy fate; I only know it shall be high, I only know it shall be great.

For 't is always fair weather When good fellows get together With a stein on the table and a good song ringing clear.

For surely in the blind deep-buried roots Of all men's souls to-day A secret quiver shoots.

You to the left and I to the right, For the ways of men must sever-- And it may be for a day and a night, And it well may be forever. But whether we meet or whether we part, A pledge from the heart to its fellow heart, On the ways we all are going! Here's luck! For we know not where we are going.

I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.

And you prate of the wealth of nations, as if it were bought and sold, The wealth of nations is men, not silk and cotton and gold.