SPRING, with the hyacinths filling her cap, and the violet seeds in her hair,
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;
SPRING, with its daffodils at her feet, and pansies a-bloom in her eyes,
SPRING, with enough of the God in herself to make the dead to arise!
For see, as she bends o’er the coffin deep—the frozen valley and hill—
The dead river stirs, Ah, that ling’ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!
And then as she closer, and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud,
Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!
The hill where she rested is all a-bloom—the wood is green as of old,
And ’wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.
Reminiscences
THERE came a dash of snow last night,
An’ ’fore I went to bed,
I somehow got to thinkin’ ’bout
That old place, Kettletread.
I’m silly ’bout that spot of earth,
Though why, I can’t surmise,
For it has got me in more scrapes
And made me tell more lies,
When me, an’ you,
An’ Taylor’s boys,
Were always in the spill,
A stealin’ off
From work to go
A-coastin’ down that hill.
Do you rec’lect how we used to stand
An’ holler out like sin,
“Now one must pass that walnut stump
Afore the rest chips in?”
An’ if one tumbled in the snow, we only stopped to laugh,
An’ all the help we ever gave was aggravatin’ chaff.