The soft south wind hath kissed the earth
That long a widowed bride hath been;
And she begins in tearful mirth,
To weave herself a robe of green.
The budding spray
On maples grey
Proclaims the quick approaching spring;
And brooks their new-found freedom sing.
Green is the moss in yonder glade
On cedars old that loves to grow;
And, underneath the pine tree's shade,
The wintergreen peeps through the snow.
The fields no more
With frost are hoar;
But not a flower doth yet appear
In glade or wood or meadow sere.
The earth within her sheltering breast
The pale hepatica doth hide;
The bloodroot and wake-robin rest
In quiet slumber side by side;
The violet
Is sleeping yet;
And still the sweet spring-beauty lies
Beyond the reach of longing eyes.
But look! beside the silent stream,
Beneath the alders brown and bare,
What is it shines with purple gleam
'Mid withered leaves that moulder there?
I know thee well,
But may not tell
Thy name. Yet I rejoice to meet thee,
And from my heart, old friend, I greet thee!
The lily hangs her dainty head
To hear her charms so loudly sung;
The rose doth blush a deeper red
To know her praise on every tongue.
But no kind word
Is ever heard
Of thee: The poets all reject thee,
The vulgar scorn thee or neglect thee.
And yet I love thee. Thou dost bring
To me a thousand visions bright
Of joyous birds that soon will sing
Among the hawthorn blossoms white;
Of happy hours
'Mid dewy flowers;
The hum of bees; the silvery gleams
Of leaping trout in amber streams.
Soon as the snows of winter yield
To April sun and April floods,
Retiring from the open field
To strongholds in the thickest woods,
Then like a scout,
Dost thou peep out,
And cheerily lift up thy head
To tell the flowers the foe has fled.
O thou that comest our hearts to cheer,
The first of all the flowers of spring,
Brave herald of the opening year,
Accept the tribute that I bring,
When now once more,
The winter o'er,
Thy honest face has greeted us,
O Symplocarpus foetidus!
1904.