First a slender, pointed spear
Cleft the brown earth sharp and clear;
Then the sun shone warmly; up
Sprang the yellow crocus-cup.
It was February; lo,
Straight across the gold and snow,
Trembling, flute-like, sweet and shrill,
Down the alder-tasselled hill─
“Phœbe! Phœbe!” dropped the call,
Saddest bird-note of them all;
Deep in delicate passion set─
Who that hears it could forget?
Out the pure wake-robins came;
Buttercups like golden flame;
Warmer shone the sun─until
March stood singing on the hill.
Pale spring-beauties, pink and white,
Spread their petals over-night;
Star-flowers glimmered in the dark
Of their own leaves’ shadow . . . . Hark!
Plaintive, pleading, shrill and high,
Still that trembling voice goes by;
Draws its sweetness thro’ the heart,
Till the quick tears ache and smart.
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