A maid shall be mother of all the earth.
Winter's bones lie bare and bleak,
Scattered white on the mountain peak.
Through stark woods the Madonna Spring
Glides with her unborn offering.
Where she treads dead flowers stir
And raise their heads to gaze after her,
And trees make dense their boughs with green
That her motherhood may not be seen.
Summer lies hid 'neath her girlish breast;