Over the hillsides and over the plains.
Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until
Never a vestige of Winter remains.
Isn’t there ever a corner forgotten,
Far to the eastward or far to the west?
Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow,
Some quiet woodland away from the rest?
Never a hillside or valley forgotten;
No little corner unkist by the Spring;
Each little bush has been touched and awakened,