The Buds

I can see
The buds have come again
On every tree.

Through some dear intercourse of sun and dew,
And thrilling root, and folding earth, anew
They come in beauty.

They up to the sun,
As on a breast, are lifting every one
Their leaves.

Under the eaves
The sparrows are in hiding
Making love.

There is a chatter in the woods above,
Where the black crow
Is saying what his sweetheart wants to know.

The sun is shining fair,
And the green is on the tree,
And the wind goes everywhere
Whispering so secretly ;
You will die unless you do
Find a mate to whisper to.

Songs From The Clay [1915]