Classic Poem

Come, with thine old-time witcheries of life,
Oh, thou full-breasted mother, hasten thee,
Lest on some winter-weary sense there fall
Too late thy rose, and humming of thy bee!

So late thou art! through many pulsing days
We heard thy tread in heart of earth and tree,
And felt thy breath until each leafing vine
Yearned for thy sensuous touch to make it free.

Through barren months, all bleak and cold and gray,
We watched, like children through the muffled pane,
A tender signal from a beckoning hand,
But only saw frost-flowers through the rain.

Come, coax the shyest blossoms of the year!
Bless us, sweet mother! Make the palest smile,
And, with our storm-roughed cheeks against thy breast,
Give us thy beauty for a little while.

No changelings call for thee, for our hearts are thine;
Thou holdest that which keeps all things in tune,—
Rose-leaves and kisses, love and life's red wine,—
Oh, golden-hearted, peerless, perfect June!