The white earth-stars at last have sprung,
dreaming their soft dreams of tomorrow,
and found their place in the green among
the carpet feet have trod when night grew day.

Blooms line the long-left barren furrow
where once they heard the winter say,
“Yours is not to speak or know,”
where spring’s whispers have been flung.

Up push now the tongues of leaves
desperate to taste the first warm bliss.
The naked branches don their sleeves
and drape their skirts o’er winter’s pall.

The rains, which set the land aglow, did miss
their earthen bed where they again can fall,
and the brazen sun is gentle in its kiss
where its winter-rays were clever thieves.

The seeds are quick’ning in springtime’s thaw,
now harkening to Gaia’s call.
And blossoms like I never saw
will number thousand or none at all.