The First Flowers

For ages on our river borders,     These tassels in their tawny bloom,     And willowy studs of downy silver,     Have prophesied of Spring to come.     For ages have the unbound waters     Smiled on them from their pebbly hem,     And the clear carol of the robin     And song of bluebird welcomed them.     But never yet from smiling river,     Or song of early bird, have they     Been greeted with a gladder welcome     Than whispers from my heart to-day.     They break the spell of cold and darkness,     The weary watch of sleepless pain;     And from my heart, as from the river,     The ice of winter melts again.     Thanks, Mary! for this wild-wood token     Of Freyas footsteps drawing near;     Almost, as in the rune of Asgard,     The growing of the grass I hear.     It is as if the pine-trees called me     From ceiled room and silent books,     To see the dance of woodland shadows,     And hear the song of April brooks!     As in the old Teutonic ballad     Of Odenwald live bird and tree,     Together live in bloom and music,     I blend in song thy flowers and thee.     Earths rocky tablets bear forever     The dint of rain and small birds track     Who knows but that my idle verses     May leave some trace by Merrimac!     The bird that trod the mellow layers     Of the young earth is sought in vain;     The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone,     From Gods design, with threads of rain!     So, when this fluid age we live in     Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme,     Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle     The savants of the coming time;     And, following out their dim suggestions,     Some idly-curious hand may draw     My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier     Drew fish and bird from fin and claw.     And maidens in the far-off twilights,     Singing my words to breeze and stream,     Shall wonder if the old-time Mary     Were real, or the rhymers dream!