Poems (Whitney)/M.
From all these mofinds, though day blows fresh and warm,The wasting snow of this snow-haunted springMarks out her nameless hillock; lingeringAs loth to rifle of its virgin charm,That spot of all. No sudden-winged alarmThe little blue-bird takes, that looks abroadFrom yon top twig, with prophecy o'erflowed.Beyond all dread or heeding;—hark! so calmRills forth his vocal sunshine on the air!A frail hepatica has here forerunThe bounty of the seagson.—Ah, forbear!Take no life here: the aspiring dust has wonTo other bloom and sweetness—Iet us shareWith God's mute confidant this vernal sun.