UNDER THE SPRINGTIDE SKY.
O BREATH of the wakening year,
And waters cold and clear!
Mists from the banks of the lake arise
To join the clouds in the dim, gray skies;
Streams rush down from the mountainside
To swell the flood of the river wide;
And over the hilltops high and grand.
Hastens a breeze from the southern land.
O songs of birds in the air,
And sunshine everywhere!
High on the maple above my head
The bluebird perches where buds are red,
And utters softly his clear, low call.
The gray clouds open, and over all
The marvelous glow of the sunshine breaks—
The robin comes, and the earth awakes!
O forest no longer dumb,
The glorious days have come!
Afar in the woods the wild vines creep
Over the mosses, and cold brooks leap
Among the rocks in the wild ravine.
Gaily the trees put on their green,
And in the branches the blithe birds sing
Till the dim retreats of the forest ring!
Henry R. Dorr.