At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst"; At the fourth hour, all the earth was still: Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst; And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill. At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne; At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried; At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown; At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died. At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb; And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours. But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers. "There will come Soft Rain". [Sara Teasdale] There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum-trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire. And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly. And Spring herself when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone. Spring Song. [William Griffith] Softly at dawn a whisper stole Down from the Green House on the Hill, Enchanting many a ghostly bole And wood-song with the ancient thrill. Gossiping on the country-side, Spring and the wandering breezes say, God has thrown Heaven open wide And let the thrushes out to-day. The Day before April. [Mary Carolyn Davies] The day before April Alone, alone, I walked in the woods And I sat on a stone. I sat on a broad stone And sang to the birds. The tune was God's making But I made the words. Berkshires in April. [Clement Wood] It is not Spring -- not yet -- But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birch Lifting a filmy red mantle of knotted buds Above the rain-washed whiteness of her arms. It is not Spring -- not yet -- But at Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting, Thin, still, and fidgety, Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathers That dawdles over the cidery Autumn loam. It is not Spring -- not yet -- But up the stocky Pownal hills Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness, Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows. It is not Spring -- not yet -- But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden, Their tall tips flinging the sun's rays back at him; And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crests, The willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn, The high hill birches shine like purple plumes, A royal headdress for the brow of Spring. It is the doubtful, unquiet end of Winter, And Spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil. In Excelsis. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]