Classic Poem

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
And Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood,
Which, warm'd by summer suns in th'alembic of the vine,
From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine.

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower,
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower;
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits,
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.

How awful is the thought of the wonders underground,
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound;
How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed,
And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed!

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day
Is commission'd to remark whether Winter holds her sway;
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing,
Say, that floods and tempests cease and the world is ripe for spring.

Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers,
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers;
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves,
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave;
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing,
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. —

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
And the feather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills,
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee,
O thou sunny first of March! be it dedicate to thee.