An hour ago the sky was closed with gray; Then March winds fanned the hill and cleared the skies Now there's a wake of racing foam where plies The wind upon the blue. But yesterday The poplar trees were listless. Now, they play With each alluring breeze; their branches rise And wave to grasses in the snow, that lies In valleys, the assurance spring will stay. The earth-smell lifting from the thawing sod Pervades my senses and dilates my soul. A day ago I seemed a moving clod— No aspiration, no response, no goal. Is it the breeze, or time of year, or God, Keeps adding joy to my unstinted bowl? |