Spring Madness
I stoop and tear the sandals from my feet
While the green fires glimmer in the gloom;
The hot roar of madness
Swells my veins with gladness;
I smell the rotting wood-stuff
And the drift of willow-bloom,
And the moon's wet face
Lifts above the place
Till gaunt and black the shadows are crowding close for room.
The alder thickets brush against my limbs;
The heavy tramp of water shakes the night;
I cross the naked hills,
Where the thin dawn lifts and fills;
All the black woods wail behind me—
They cannot stay my flight
Till the sun's red stain
Dyes the world again
And winds beyond the heavens are dancing in the light.
One Morning when the Rain-Birds Call
The snows have joined the little streams and slid into the sea;
The mountain sides are damp and black and steaming in the sun;
But Spring, who should be with us now, is waiting timidly
For Winter to unbar the gates and let the rivers run.
It matters not how green the grass is lifting through the mold,
How strong the sap is climbing out to every naked bough,
That in the towns the market-stalls are bright with jonquil gold,
And over marsh and meadowland the frogs are fluting now.
For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley's mouth.
Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar.
And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.
One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills,
And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green,
The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills—
An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,
Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.
Spring's Singing