Spring

O grand, old Earth of God’s and ours, Once more thou doffest winter’s veil, Once more the budding trees and flowers And birds’ sweet music bid thee hail!

Is it a time for joy or care, O Earth?—a time to laugh or weep? What myriads in thy bosom sleep, And we shall soon lie sleeping there!

O Earth! ’tis hard to understand Why thou should’st thus thy children crave! For art thou not a mighty grave, Though strewn with flowers by God’s good hand?

Thou hearest not, amid thy mirth, Nor carest though thy children die, And senseless in thy bosom lie, Cold and unthought of, cruel Earth!

And yet, O Earth! a little seed, Dropt by man’s hand within thy heart, Thou makest great, and dost impart To him again for every need!

O Earth! if seed that man lets fall Into thy heart, thou givest thus Back thirty, sixty-fold to us, Thou art not cruel, after all!

Nor dost thou, Earth, thy children crave; ’Tis God that sows them as His seed, And by and bye they shall be freed, As beauteous flowers for him who gave.

O gay, Spring Earth of God’s and ours,— Nay, rather, thou and we are His, And sun and stars and all that is,— We bid thee hail with birds and flowers!