The sultry sun heats to the seventh sweat.

The ravine rages in the frenzy, senseless.

As though a cowgirl working in the stead,—

The spring is busy, and its chores are endless.

Out in the light, the snow-banks slowly slump,

Their bloodless, twig-like veins turn paler still.

And from the farmhouse, life is smoking up,

The tines of pitchforks breathe with zest and zeal.

These nights. These days. These days and nights!

The thud of droplets in midday, the spatter

Of dripping icicles,—what wonderful delight!

To hear the sleepless brook’s relentless chatter!

The cow-stead and the stable,—open everything!

Gray pigeons peck the oats out of the snow,

And from the all-creating and enabling,—

From fresh manure, fresh air begins to flow …