

I, country-born an' bred, know where to find 

 Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, 

 An' seem to metch the doubtin' blue-bird's notes, — 

 Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, 

 Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, 

 Each on 'em's cradle to a baby-pearl, — 

 But these are jes' Spring's pickets ; sure ez sin, 

 The rebble frosts '11 try to drive 'em in ; 

 For half our May's so awfully like May'nt, 

 'T would rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; 

 Though I own up I like our back'ard springs 

 Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, 

 An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more words 

 Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds. 



—Lowell 



