A MIRACLE.

A MIRACLE.
370.5

April, April, full of hopes,
All a world of sunny sheen
‘Round her, wanders up our slopes,
Bluebirds following, in her hands
Bursting leaf bud’s tender green,
Laughing, tilting, on the rocks
She hangs her saxifrage, and gropes
Through dark woods with venturing bees
To wet spots of anemones.
There she makes the velvet nooks
Of black and white and bubbling brooks
Red with swinging maple keys.
Listens for the melting snows,
Calls her violets, and goes
Dreaming shyly of the rose
Sometime opening where no blast
Of the wild east ever blows.
Then climbs the sky with all her flocks
Of huddled clouds in snowy bands.
For far and undiscovered lands.
And we smile this year as the last,
Nor know a miracle bas passed
Into the Unknown from the Vast.
-Harriet Prescott Spofford