It matters not how green the grass is lifting through the mold, How strong the sap is climbing out to every naked bough, That in the towns the market-stalls are bright with jonquil gold, And over marsh and meadowland the frogs are fluting now. 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?_