I read the mystic sign

Of joy more perfect made

Because so long delayed,

And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.

Ah, think not early love alone is strong;

He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:

Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,

You're doubly dear because you come so late.

 SPRING IN THE SOUTH

 Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings; Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling; Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings; Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying, Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass, Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,— Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?

Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,

Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings;

Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling;

Every little pine-wood grows alive with wings;

Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying,

Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,

Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,—

Who has waked the birds up? What has come to pass?

 Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing, Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn; Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing, Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn. Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning; Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest; Look where the jasmine lavishly is 

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