For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
    And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley’s mouth. 
  Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar. 
    And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.

One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills, And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green, The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills—­ An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,

  Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
    With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
  The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
    And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.

Spring’s Singing

    Spring once more is here—­
    Joyous, sweet, and clear—­
  Singing down the leafless aisles
    To the budding year.

    Her chanting is the thrush
    Through the twilight hush,
  And the silver tongues of waters
    Where the willows blush;

    Stir of lifting heads
    Over violet beds;
  Piping of the first glad robin
    Through the greens and reds;

    Croak of sullen crows
    When the south wind blows,
  Sighing in the shaggy spruces
    Wet with melted snows;

    Whisper of the rain
    Down the hills again,
  And the heavy feet of waters
    Tramping on the plain.

    Now the Goddess Spring
    Makes the woodlands ring,
  Bringing with a hundred voices
    Joy to everything.

The Flutes of the Frogs

  ’Tis not the notes of the homing birds through the first warm April rain,
  Or the scarlet buds and the rising green come back to the land again,
  That stirs my heart from its winter sleep to pulse to the old refrain;

  But when from the miles of bubbling marsh and
          the valley’s steaming floor,
  Shrilling keen with a million flutes the ancient spring-time lore,
  I hear the myriad emerald frogs awake in the world once more.

  All day when the clouds drive overhead and the shadows run below,
  Crossing the wind-swept pasture lots where the thin, red willows glow,
  There’s not a throat in the joyous host that does not swell and blow.

  And all night long to the march of stars the wild mad music thrills,
  Voicing the birth of the glad wet spring in a thousand stops and trills,
  Till the pale sun lifts through the rosy mists
          and floats from the harbour hills.

Miss Pixie

  Did you ever meet Miss Pixie of the Spruces? 
    Did you ever glimpse her mocking elfin face? 
  Did you ever hear her calling while the whip-poor-wills were calling,
    And slipped your pack and taken up the chase?