Meadow Frogs

ERE yet the earliest warbler wakes
Of coming spring to tell,
From every marsh a chorus breaks, —
A choir invisible, —
As though the blossoms underground
A breath of utterance had found.

Whence comes the liquid melody ?
The summer clouds can bring
No fresher music from the sky
Than here the marshes sing.
Methinks the mists about to rise
Are chanting their rain prophecies.