Would you not be in Tryon Now that the spring is here, When mocking-birds are praising The fresh, the blossomy year?
Look — on the leafy carpet Woven of winter's browns Iris and pink azaleas Flutter their gaudy gowns.
The dogwood spreads white meshes — So white and light and high — To catch the drifting sunlight Out of the cobalt sky.
The pointed beech and maple, The pines, dark-tufted, tall, Pattern with many colors The mountain's purple wall.
Hark — what a rushing torrent Of crystal song falls sheer! Would you not be in Tryon Now that the spring is here?