In the dark silence of her chamber low
March works sweeter things than mortals know.
Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care,
Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear;
She sews the seams in violet’s queer hood,
And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood.
Out of a bit of sky’s delicious blue
She fashions hyacinths, and harebells too;
And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair,
Or spins a gown for a daffodil to wear.
She pulls the cover from the crocus beds
And bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads.
“Come, early risers; come, anemone,
My pale windflower, awake, awake,” calls she.
“The world expects you, and your lovers wait
To give you welcome at Spring’s open gate.”
She marshals the close armies of the grass,
And polishes their green blades as they pass
And all the blossoms of the fruit trees sweet
Are piled in rosy shells about her feet.
Within her great alembic she distills
The dainty odor which each flower fills.
Nor does she ever give to mignonette
The perfume that belongs to violet.
Nature does well whatever task she tries
Because obedient,—there the secret lies.