I
What the May-apple or
Woodland anemone—
Star-perfect as a star—
Says to the honey-bee:
Or to the winds that woo,
Filling their hearts with dew:
What says the bluet’s blue
To the sun’s ray—do you
Know or do I?—
II
Listen, and you may hear
What the oxalis says
Into the downy ear
Of the pale moth that sways
There on its heart and drinks:
Or what the forest-pinks
Say to the dew that winks,
Butterfly-wing that blinks—
Glimmering by.
III
They say: “When April trod
By in a blowing blush,—
Wise as a word of God
Holding all Heaven a-hush,—
Singing a song of love,
We, as she passed above,
Sprang from the notes thereof,
Filling with joy each grove,
Beauty and mystery.”