What time with hand and heart aglow
The sower goeth forth to sow,
Supine within her purple bed
Naked the idle earth lies dead;
He scatters with an open hand,
His burning words fall on the land,
To melt the cruel clods, and save
The maiden from a living grave.
See all her acres, fetter-freed,
In hungry furrows catch the seed.
Deep in her heart the earth conceives
The advent of a million leaves.
Then first she wraps a restless brood
In swaddling-clothes occult and crude;
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| from Blount, Godfrey, Arbor Vitae, Fifield, 1899 |
Like motes in sunbeams soon they fly,
Ripening beneath their Maker's eye,
To dance about our feet and sing
The rapturous inrush of the spring.
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