Sandalled with violets, adown the breaking way
She cometh, misty-eyed with hopes of May;
The changing splendor of the morning skies
Holds less of promise than her waiting eyes.

Across the black, ploughed fields her scarf of rain
In floating folds enwraps the leaping grain,
While 'neath the velvet press of her thin feet,
Quickens to growth the yet unbladed wheat.

And as she dreameth, down the blue, far rills
Rise windy banks of unborn daffodils, —
Soft! is it growing grass or young birds' call
Lisping to her, the Mother of them all?
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