  In March the earliest bluebird came And caroled from the orchard-tree His little tremulous songs to me, And called upon the summer’s name, And made old summers in my heart All sweet with flower and sun again; So that I said, “O, not in vain Shall be thy lay of little art, “Though never summer sun may glow, Nor summer flower for thee may bloom; Though winter turn in sudden gloom, And drowse the stirring spring with snow”; And learned to trust, if I should call Upon the sacred name of Song, Though chill through March I languish long, And never feel the May at all, Yet may I touch, in some who hear, The hearts, wherein old songs asleep Wait but the feeblest touch to leap In music sweet as summer air! I sing in March brief bluebird lays, And hope a May, and do not know: May be, the heaven is full of snow,–– May be, there open summer days. |
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