Reed Notes

WHAT bird is that that sings so long?
To hear whose song
Each bashful bud opens its rosy ear,
Leaning it near:
While here,
Under the blossoming button-tree,
I seem to see
A shape, a presence look out at me;
And, clothed in raiment of white and gray,
Pass on like the Spirit of Easter Day.

Deep in the leaves’ concealing green
A wood-thrush flutes,
The first thrush seen
Or heard this spring; and straight, meseems,
Its notes take on the attributes
Of mythic fancies and of dreams —
A Faun goes piping o’er the roots
And mosses; gliding through dim gleams
And glooms; and while he glides he flutes,
Though still unseen,
’Mid thorny berry and wild bean.

Come, let us forth and homage her,
Clothed on with warmth and musk and myrrh,
The indescribable odor wild that clings
Around her like a garment: let us sing Songs to her, glad as grass and all the things
Exulting in her presence — greening things
And airy that have gotten them new wings:
Come, let us forth and give our praise to Spring.

The smell of tannin in the ozoned air,
Under the oaks when the woods are green,
And the scent of the soil and moisture where
The young leaves dangle and make a screen, —
Where the hiding Wood Nymph combs her hair, —
Will breathe us full of the faun again,
Making us kin to the wind and rain.

The wind goes groping among the trees,
Telling the bees
Where the little buds open that no one sees.

At intervals, as softly cool it blows,
The wild-plum shows
Its bee-swarmed clusters ’twixt the woods’ dark rows.

Who is it knows
How the blueberry grows,
Blooms and blows ? —
Only the bird that sings and sings,
Waving its wings,
Saying, “Come see it where it swings!
Ruddy green and amber rose
See, oh, see.

In honor of Spring,
Under this tree,
See how they ring
Their tiny bells, that cluster out,
Silvery red, in a rosy rout.”

I saw the Spring go by, her mouth a thread
Of wildrose red,
Blowing a golden oat:
And now, a crown of barley on her head,
The Summer comes, a poppy at her throat.