 | Poems |  |
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COMING.
At last the breath of Spring begins to stirNature's dry bones down in their sepulchre:
There is new grass in green blades here and there,
And little birds a-singing in the air;
Warm morning sunshine on the roof is shed,
And gray woods thicken on the mountain's head;
Now doves strut out to preen them every one,
And puff their purple breasts before the sun;
Full set with buds are all the happy trees,
Warmed to the quick by every toying breeze;
A murmurous breathing seems to wake with day;
Gold dandelions shine along the way:
Life is come back, and death with sullen face
Steals off, and leaves a blessing in his place.
Awake, O north wind! come, thou south, and blow
Till from these gardens all their spices flow;
Haste, tender blossoms, hiding in the sod,
To lift your small sweet faces up to God.
All chirping creatures that the forests hold,
Utter aloud your voices manifold.
And let us sing, even as the bluebirds do,
Although our feet are standing in the dew,
And there be frosts to pinch us from the north,
Yet sing! oh, sing! for Spring is coming forth.
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And flashing storms, and thunder in the sky,
High pearl-topped clouds along the heavenly plain,
Bright clearing sunsets, rainbows after rain,
Soft sultry nights, and greenest fields of grain,
All loved and lovely things, when Spring has come again!
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