Nothing is so beautiful as spring -- when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
O if we but knew what we do when we delve or hew -- hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender to touch, her being so slender, that like this sleek and seeing ball but a prick will make no eye at all, where we, even where we mean to mend her we end her, when we hew or delve: after-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
And for all this, nature is never spent. There lives the dearest freshness deep down things. And though the last nights off the black West went/Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward , springs--/Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and Ah! bright wings.
Glory be to God for dappled things. For skies of couple-color as a brindles cow. For roso-moles that all in stipple upon trout that swim. Fresh fire-coal chestnut falls; finches' wings. Landscape plotted and pieced--fold fallow and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
The boughs, the boughs are bare enough But earth has never felt the snow. Frost-furred our ivies are and rough With bills of rime the brambles shew The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground Because the sighing wind is low.