For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley's mouth.
Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar.
And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.

One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills,
And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green,
The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills--
An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,

Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.




Spring's Singing

Spring once more is here--
Joyous, sweet, and clear--
Singing down the leafless aisles
To the budding year.

Her chanting is the thrush
Through the twilight hush,
And the silver tongues of waters
Where the willows blush;