Classic Poem

Who had seen them, the mystic sprites,
The working forces of earth and air,
And light and water, which, days and nights,
Labor incessantly everywhere?
Those wondrous powers which since the birth
Of growing things, when the first leaf sprung,
Have kept the gracious and fruitful earth
Renewed with years, and forever young.

They taper the sprout to pierce the mould
Of the yielding earth in the early spring,
They edge the columbine's red with gold,
And paint the tanager's brilliant wing,—
They pencil lightly with tender pink
The pale spring-beauty, that hides her flowers
In chilly hollows, where snowdrifts shrink
Under April's persistent showers.

They hang the boughs of the chestnut-tree
With slender tassels of swinging bloom;
They wake the chrysalis tenderly
And call forth life from its winter tomb;
They flatter the strawberry's white to red,
And dint its coral with amber seeds;
They honey the tubes of the clover-heads,
And gild the ear-drops of jewel-weeds.

They trim the lanterns of living light
That sail the air in the summer eves;
They stretch the gossamers in the night,
They curl the tendrils, and notch the leaves.
They lead the bee to the buckwheat-blooms
Whose hidden nectar he else might miss;
They deck with garlands of silky plumes
The clambering length of the clematis.

They weave unseen in some magic loom
The grass-spread cobwebs, bedropt with light,
And blow to sudden and fragrant bloom
The evening-primrose buds at night;
They teach the ox-eyes to dance and swing,
And top the grass-waves like milk-white froth,
They girdle the wasp with a golden ring,
And powder with silver the candle-moth.

They drape the curtains of morning mist,—
They bridge with rainbows the cataract's flood,
They prank the pansy, and deftly twist
The point of the morning-glory bud;
They give the earthquake its awful force;
The dread volcano obeys their word;
They rouse the whirlwind and shape its course,—
And bronze the neck of the humming-bird.

They round the dew-drop that winks and shines
Like a diamond-spark when the grass is wet;
They trace with purple the dainty lines
In the cup of the shy white violet;
They warm the peach with a scarlet streak,
And touch its velvet with rich perfume;
They redden the ripening apple's cheek,
And dust the grape with its azure bloom.

They shape the snowflakes in perfect forms
Of stars and crosses and tiny spheres;
They beckon the tides and rule the storms,
And rend the rocks of a thousand years,—
But who shall see them, the wondrous powers
Of earth and water and light and air
Which counting cycles as only hours,
Labor incessantly everywhere?