It waits upon the lawn;
  It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
  It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
  Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
  It passes, and we stay: 

A quality of loss
  Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
  Upon a sacrament.

IV.

The waking year.

A lady red upon the hill
  Her annual secret keeps;
A lady white within the field
  In placid lily sleeps!

The tidy breezes with their brooms
  Sweep vale, and hill, and tree! 
Prithee, my pretty housewives! 
  Who may expected be?

The neighbors do not yet suspect! 
  The woods exchange a smile —­
Orchard, and buttercup, and bird —­
  In such a little while!

And yet how still the landscape stands,
  How nonchalant the wood,
As if the resurrection
  Were nothing very odd!

V.

To March.

Dear March, come in! 
How glad I am! 
I looked for you before. 
Put down your hat —­
You must have walked —­
How out of breath you are! 
Dear March, how are you? 
And the rest? 
Did you leave Nature well? 
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the birds’;
The maples never knew
That you were coming, —­ I declare,
How red their faces grew! 
But, March, forgive me —­
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.

Who knocks?  That April! 
Lock the door! 
I will not be pursued! 
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied. 
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.

VI.

March.

We like March, his shoes are purple,
  He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
  Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
  And begets her spot. 
Stands the sun so close and mighty
  That our minds are hot. 
News is he of all the others;
  Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
  On his British sky.

VII.

Dawn.

Not knowing when the dawn will come
  I open every door;
Or has it feathers like a bird,
  Or billows like a shore?

VIII.

A murmur in the trees to note,
  Not loud enough for wind;
A star not far enough to seek,
  Nor near enough to find;

A long, long yellow on the lawn,
  A hubbub as of feet;
Not audible, as ours to us,
  But dapperer, more sweet;