Ii

The sassafras twigs had just lit up The yellow stars of their fragrant candles, And the dogwood brimmed each blossom-cup With spring to its brown-tipped handles; When down the orchard, ’mid apple blooms-- Say, ho, the hum o’ the honey-bee!-- A glimpse of Spring in the sprinkled glooms? Or only a girl? with the warm perfumes Blown round her breezily.

The maple, as red as the delicate flush Of an afterglow, was airy crimson; And the haw-tree, white in the wing-whipped hush, Gleamed cool as a cloud that the moonlight dims on; And under the oak, whose branches strung-- Say, heigh, the rap o’ the sapsuckér!-- Gray buds in tassels that sweetly swung, They stood and listened a bird that sung, As glad as the heart in her.

Yellow the bloom of the rattle-weed, And white the bloom of the plum and cherry; And red as a stain the red-bud’s brede, And clover the color of sherry: And a wren sings there in the orchard drift,-- And, ho! the dew from the web that slips!-- And a thrush sings there in the woodland rift, Where he to his face her face doth lift, Her face with the willing lips.

For a while they sat on the moss and grass, Where the forest bloomed a great wild garden;-- Then the beam from the hollow--it seemed to pass, And the ray on the hills to harden, When she rose to go, and his joy fell flat;-- And, heigh, the wasp i’ the pawpaw bell!-- As she waved her hand--why, it seemed at that ’Twas Spring’s own self he was gazing at, And the life of his life as well.