Fust come the blackbirds clatt’rin’ in tall trees,
  An’ settlin’ things in windy Congresses,—­
  Queer politicians, though, for I’ll be skinned,
  Ef all on ’em don’t head aginst the wind. 
  ’Fore long the trees begin to show belief,—­
  The maple crimsons to a coral-reef,
  Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers
  So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
  Then gray hossches’nuts leetle hands unfold

  Softer ’n a baby’s be at three days old: 
  This is the robin’s almanick; he knows
  Thet arter this ther’ ’s only blossom-snows;
  So, choosin’ out a handy crotch an’ spouse,
  He goes to plast’rin’ his adobe house.

  Then seems to come a hitch,—­things lag behind,
  Till some fine mornin’ Spring makes up her mind,
  An’ ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams
  Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an’ jams,
  A leak comes spirtin’ thru some pin-hole cleft,
  Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an’ left,
  Then all the waters bow themselves an’ come,
  Suddin, in one gret slope o’ shedderin’ foam,
  Jes’ so our Spring gits everythin’ in tune
  An’ gives one leap from April into June: 
  Then all comes crowdin’ in; afore you think,
  The oak-buds mist the side-hill woods with pink,
  The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud,
  The orchards turn to heaps o’ rosy cloud,
  In ellum-shrouds the flashin’ hangbird clings
  An’ for the summer vy’ge his hammock slings,
  All down the loose-walled lanes in archin’ bowers
  The barb’ry droops its strings o’ golden flowers,
  Whose shrinkin’ hearts the school-gals love to try
  With pins,—­they ’ll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! 
  But I don’t love your cat’logue style,—­do you?—­
  Ez ef to sell all Natur’ by vendoo;
  One word with blood in ’t’s twice ez good ez two: 
  ‘Nuff sed, June’s bridesman, poet o’ the year,
  Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here;
  Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings,
  Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin’ wings,
  Or, givin’ way to ’t in a mock despair,
  Runs down, a brook o’ laughter, thru the air.

  I ollus feel the sap start in my veins
  In spring, with curus heats an’ prickly pains,
  Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk
  Off by myself to hev a privit talk
  With a queer critter thet can’t seem to ’gree
  Along o’ me like most folks,—­Mister Me. 
  Ther’ ’s times when I’m unsoshle ez a stone,
  An’ sort o’ suffocate to be alone,—­
  I’m crowded jes’ to think thet folks are nigh,
  An’ can’t bear nothin’ closer than the sky;
  Now the wind’s full ez shifty in the mind
  Ez wut it is ou’-doors, ef I ain’t blind,
  An’ sometimes, in the fairest sou’west weather,
  My innard vane pints east for weeks together,
  My natur’ gits all goose-flesh, an’ my sins
  Come drizzlin’ on my conscience sharp ez pins: