Painting fawns' and leopards' fells,
Seethes the gulf-encrimsoning shells,
Fires gardens with a joyful blaze
Of tulips, in the morning's rays.
The dead log touched bursts into leaf,
The wheat-blade whispers of the sheaf.
What god is this imperial Heat,
Earth's prime secret, sculpture's seat?
Doth it bear hidden in its heart
Water-line patterns of all art,
Is it Dædalus? is it Love?

Or walks in mask almighty Jove,
And drops from Power's redundant horn
All seeds of beauty to be born?

As we thaw frozen flesh with snow,
So Spring will not her time forerun,
Mix polar night with tropic glow,
Nor cloy us with unshaded sun,
Nor wanton skip with bacchic dance,
But she has the temperance

Of the gods, whereof she is one, —
Masks her treasury of heat

Under east-winds crossed with sleet.

Plants and birds and humble creatures

Well accept her rule austere;

Titan-born, to hardy natures

Cold is genial and dear.

As Southern wrath to Northern right

Is but straw to anthracite ;

As in the day of sacrifice,

When heroes piled the pyre,
The dismal Massachusetts ice
Burned more than others' fire,
So Spring guards with surface cold
The garnered heat of ages old.
Hers to sow the seed of bread,
That man and all the kinds be fed;
And, when the sunlight fills the hours,
Dissolves the crust, displays the flowers.

Beneath the calm, within the light A hid unruly appetite

Of swifter life, a surer hope,

Strains every sense to larger scope,
Impatient to anticipate

The halting steps of aged Fate.

Slow grows the palm, too slow the pearl: When Nature falters, fain would zeal Grasp the felloes of her wheel,

And grasping give the orbs another whirl. Turn swiftlier round, O tardy ball!

And sun this frozen side,

Bring hither back the robin's call,
Bring back the tulip's pride.

Why chidest thou the tardy Spring?
The hardy bunting does not chide;
The blackbirds make the maples ring
With social cheer and jubilee;
The red-wing flutes his o-ka-lee,
The robins know the melting snow;

The sparrow meek, prophetic-eyed,
Her nest beside the snow-drift weaves,
Secure the osier yet will hide

Her callow brood with mantling leaves,
And thou, by science all undone,
Why only must thy reason fail
To see the southing of the sun?

The world rolls round, mistrust it not, Befalls again what once befell; All things return, both sphere and mote, And I shall hear my bluebird's note And dream the dream of Auburn-dell.

As poured the flood of the ancient sea
Spilling over mountain-chains,
Bending forests as bends the sedge,
Faster flowing o'er the plains,

A world-wide wave with a foaming edge
That rims the running silver sheet,
So pours the deluge of the heat
Broad northward o'er the land,
Painting artless paradises,

Drugging herbs with Syrian spices,
Fanning secret fires which glow
In columbine and clover-blow.
Climbing the northern zones,
Where a thousand pallid towns
Lie like cockles by the main,
Or tented armies on a plain.
The million-handed painter pours

Opal hues and purple dye;
Azaleas flush the island floors,
And the tints of heaven reply.

Wreaths for the May! for happy Spring
To-day shall all her dowry bring,-
The love of kind, the joy, the grace,
Hymen of element and race,
Knowing well to celebrate

With song and hue and star and state,
With tender light and youthful cheer,
The spousals of the new-born year.

Spring is strong and virtuous,
Broad-sowing, cheerful, plenteous,
Quickening underneath the mould
Grains beyond the price of gold.
So deep and large her bounties are,
That one broad, long midsummer day
Shall to the planet overpay

The ravage of a year of war.

Drug the cup, thou butler sweet,
And send the nectar round;
The feet that slid so long on sleet
Are glad to feel the ground.
Fill and saturate each kind
With good according to its mind,
Fill each kind and saturate
With good agreeing with its fate,
And soft perfection of its plan
Willow and violet, maiden and man.

The bitter-sweet, the haunting air
Creepeth, bloweth everywhere;

It preys on all, all prey on it,
Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit,
Stings the strong with enterprise,
Makes travellers long for Indian skies,
And where it comes this courier fleet
Fans in all hearts expectance sweet,
As if to-morrow should redeem
The vanished rose of evening's dream.
By houses lies a fresher green,
On men and maids a ruddier mien,
As if time brought a new relay
Of shining virgins every May,
And Summer came to ripen maids
To a beauty that not fades.

Where shall we keep the holiday,
And duly greet the entering May?
Too strait and low our cottage doors,
And all unmeet our carpet floors;
Nor spacious court, nor monarch's hall
Suffice to hold the festival.

Up and away! where haughty woods
Front the liberated floods:

We will climb the broad-backed hills,
Hear the uproar of their joy;

We will mark the leaps and gleams
Of the new-delivered streams,
And the murmuring rivers of sap
Mount in the pipes of the trees,