Page:Florence Earle Coates Mine and Thine 1904 134.jpg

 Hearken! what myriad little lives once more

Come knocking, knocking at the Mother's door,

Importunate for birth!

The trees, that look so bare,

Are conscious that the tender leaves are there—

Folded, yet faintly stirring in the bud;

And upward from each buried rootlet runs

The golden ichor, gift of vernal suns,

On swelling to the flood.

And, oh! thrice loved of yore—

Whence comes that note? It was not here before!

The white-throat! By what blest magician's art—