The First Flowers

For ages, on our river borders,

These tassels in their tawny bloom,

And willowy studs of downy silver,

Have prophesied of Spring to come.

For ages have the unbound waters

Smiled on them from their pebbly hem,

And the clear carol of the robin

And song of bluebird welcomed them.

But never yet from smiling river,

Or song of early bird, have they

Been greeted with a gladder welcome

Than whispers from my heart to-day.

They break the spell of cold and darkness,

The weary watch of sleepless pain;

And from my heart, as from the river,

The ice of winter melts again.

Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token

Of Freya’s footsteps drawing near;

Almost, as in the rune of Asgard,

The growing of the grass I hear.

It is as if the pine-trees called me

From ceilëd room and silent books,

To see the dance of woodland shadows,

And hear the song of April brooks!

As in the old Teutonic ballad

Of Odenwald live bird and tree,

Together live in bloom and music,

I blend in song thy flowers and thee.

Earth’s rocky tablets bear forever

The dint of rain and small bird’s track:

Who knows but that my idle verses

May leave some trace by Merrimac!

The bird that trod the mellow layers

Of the young earth is sought in vain;

The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone,

From God’s design, with threads of rain!

So, when this fluid age we live in

Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme,

Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle

The savants of the coming time;

And, following out their dim suggestions,

Some idly-curious hand may draw

My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier

Drew fish and bird from fin and claw.

And maidens in the far-off twilights,

Singing my words to breeze and stream,

Shall wonder if the old-time Mary

Were real, or the rhymer’s dream!