Here, underneath the snow, a flower 
Is waiting for an April hour 
To come, with blithe and balmy breeze 
And blow the spring across the leas 
A robin’s song, or bubbling note 
Of music from a bluebird’s throat, 
Will bid it put its dreams away, 
And say good morning to the May. 
We need not see the flower to know 
What time Arbutus blossoms blow ; 
For every wind that wanders here 
Will tell the tidings far and near ; 
A breath of fragrance, like a thought 
That haunts you, but will not be caught 
In words that fit the subject weil ; 
Who shall describe the subtle spell ; 
The pink Arbutus blossoms bring, 
To weave about the world in spring ? 
Espen E. REXFORD. 
