Classic Poem

The spring is here; the orchard-blooms
Like snow-flakes whiten all the air:
I smell the delicate perfumes
Of apricot and pear.

I wander down the gravelled slopes,
And take the garden path that leads
Where, in their blind assurance, gropes
My buried store of seeds.

Ah, Nature fails me not! she keeps
Her promise sacred as of old;
See where its glad fulfilment peeps
Up through the softened mould;

Pansies and pinks and daffodils,
A brave array of bursting green;
Prophetic of the bloom that fills
The summer days with sheen.

A handful of unsightly seed,
Faith's offering, in faith I brought,
And lo, in answer to the deed,
A miracle is wrought!

And soon the summer's wizard hours
Shall crown the witchery of spring,
And I shall walk among my flowers
As happy as a king.

Nature, great conjurer! I kneel
Abashed and awed before her shrine:
Would some weird whisper might reveal
And make her secret mine!

Yet this we know, if only this:
She follows on where we essay
A smoother path; small marvel 't is
That we do go astray.

She follows on through night and noon:
Makes odds, that else would work her ill,
Her slaves; she yokes the sun and moon
To her imperious will!

Wrests blessing from the clouds and heat,
Makes vilest offal tribute pay;
And ever, from what seems defeat,
Plucks victory away.

And when shall come her autumn days,
And she among her fruits and flowers
Stands justified, how brighTher bays
Shall be, compared with ours!

Ah, did we copy nature's ways,
Her consummations we might share;
What songs of triumph we should raise!
What palms of victory bear!