Here on the wide waste lands,Take--child--these trembling hands,Though my life be as blank and waste,My days as sorely ungracedBy glimmer of green on the rimOf a sunless wilderness dim,As the wet fields barren and brown,As the fork of each sterile limbShorn of its lustrous crown.
See--how vacant and flatThe landscape--empty and dull,Scared by an ominous lullInto a trance--we have satThis hour on the edge of a broken, a gray snake-fence,And nothing that lives has flown,Or crept, or leapt, or been blownTo our feet or past our faces--So desolate, child--the place is!It strikes, does it not, a chill,Like that other upon the hill,We felt one bleak October?See--the gray wood still sober'Ere it be wild with glee,With growth, with an ecstasyOf fruition born of desire.The marigold's yellow fireDoth not yet in the sun burn to leap, to aspire;Its myriad spotted spearsNo erythronium rears;We cannot seeAnemone,Or heart-lobed brown hepatica;There doth not fly,Low under sky,One kingfisher dipping and dartingFrom reedy shallows where reds are starting,Pale pink tips that shall burst into bloom,Not in one night's mid-April gloom.But inch by inch, till ripening tint,And feathery plume and emerald glintProclaim the waters are open.
All this will come,The panting humOf the life that will stir,Glance and glide, and whistle and whir,Chatter and crow, and perch and pry,Crawl and leap and dart and fly,Things of feather and things of fur,Under the blue of an April sky.Shall speak, the dumb,Shall leap, the numb,All this will come,It never misses,Failure, yet--Never was setIn the sure spring's calendar,Wherefore--Pet--Give me one of your springtime kisses!While you plant some hope in my cold man's breast--Ah! How welcome the strange flower-guest--Water it softly with maiden tears,Go to it early--and late--with fears;Guard it, and watch it, and give it timeFor the holy dews to moisten the rime--Make of it some green gracious thing,Such as the Heavens shall make of the Spring!
