The branching walks, within its hollow’d nook
We see the violet by some lingering flake
Of melting snow, its sweet eye lifting up,
As welcoming our presence; o’er our heads
The fruit-tree buds are swelling, and we hail
Our grateful task of molding into form
The waste around us. The quick delving spade
Upturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rake
Smooths the plump bed, and in their furrow’d graves
We drop the seed. The robin stops his work