Early Spring

Now the soft rain comes over the blue hill, And the red-shouldered blackbird sounds his flute Along the meadows of the Silvermine. Between its willow banks the winding stream Is tinged with violet dusk, as the great moon Rises in splendor on the Eastern ridge, And through the twilight all the marshy ground Rings with the silver chorus of the frogs. In rocky groves the shy hepaticas Awake to don their softest blue once more, And troops of golden adder's-tongue return. In cool damp woods Jack-in-the-pulpit stands, And the dark trillium for a mystic sign; That all the old earth magic is renewed.