SONG OF SPRING.
INVISIBLE hands from summer lands
Have plucked the icicles one by one;
And shy little lifters, away from the sun,
Laid hold on the roots of the grass in the sands;
And oh, and oh,
Where is the snow?
For the crow is calling,
And showers are falling.
Ho, willow and weed! Each secret seed
Is up, and out of its garments gray;
The music of waters is heard in the mead,
And limping old winter is whither away?
And oh, and oh,
Where is the snow?
For the bird is singing,
And flowers upspringing.
—Wide Awake.