34 



The crusted earth lies all a watery quag- 

 mire. Even the sharp hill-slopes run sheet- 

 ed water. The hollows gather to themselves 

 rills and pools as clear as when they fell over 

 the world, the Ice-Queen's silvern tears. 



And winds o' March do blow blow out 

 of all the heavens. To this sunny lee slope 

 comes one, soft as the breath of May. With 

 what light touch he lifts the slender hazel, 

 at morning bent to earth. How gentle 

 his spiriting to the wind-flowers at its root. 

 Pale, broken, dainty darlings ! you blos- 

 somed but to die. The pert, small blue 

 sweet-heart laughs you quite to scorn. 

 Even before you it starred the hill-side with 

 its clustered crosses. When the sleet fell, 

 hard and heavy, it sank to the shelter of its 

 mossy bed. Now that sun-rays lie warm, it 

 springs up, shouting with all its tiny voices, 

 " Here am I look at me. Love me the 

 spring's fair, first, spoiled child." 



Leave far this piping flower, this puling 

 breeze. Come stand in clear space, where 

 all around, about, a west wind resonant, 

 conquering, vivifying plays on the forest- 

 organ the anthem of resurrection. Under 

 trees themselves you shall not half so hear 

 its sweep and swell, its rolling diapason, 

 its chant of rejoicing, its trumpeting of vie- 



