Ix

Already bluish pink and green The bloodroot’s buds and leaves are seen Clumped in dim cirques; one from the other Hardly distinguished in the shadowy smother Of last year’s leaves blown brown between. And, piercing through the layers of dead leaves, The searching eye perceives The dog’s-tooth violet, pointed needle-keen, Lifting its beak of mottled green; While near it heaves The May-apple its umbrous spike, a ball,-- Like to a round, green bean, That folds its blossom,--topping its tight-closed parasol: The clustered bluebell near Hollows its azure ear, Low-leaning to the earth as if to hear The sound of its own growing and perfume Flowing into its bloom: And softly there The twin-leaf’s stems prepare Pale tapers of transparent white, As if to light The Spirit of Beauty through the wood’s green night.