Classic Poem

What's all the trouble
Stirring the still?
Grasses are busy
Greening the hill;
Rootlets are feeling
Down in the dim;
Brooklets are stealing
Through the dry limb;
Ferns are uncurling
Out of the sere;
Woods are awaking,—
Anemone's here!
Birds are re-sprinkling
Song on the air;
Youths and the maidens
Are going a-pair:
What's all the trouble?

The Call of the Sun!
The Lure of the Skies!
Earth's trembling all over
With atom-replies,—
While Man, the one-word-wise,
Laughs, ‘April!’