Joseph Victor Widmann (1842–1911)

A NIGHT of spring on valley and on height!

The first that follows on chill winter-tide.

The mild south wind is roused again to flight,

The gentle billows of his breathing glide

Into the deeps of earth, so dark as night,

And dwell where still and secret beings hide

Which yon blue stream of light can never show

That from the island of the moon doth flow.

The deep is not the realm of death alone.

Of life-seeds there a host of millions lies.

From grubs, so pale and weak and bloodless grown,

Soon legions of them, armed in mail, will rise,

Who still in caves, dark chambers of their own,

Are dwelling like a shadow-folk. Surmise

Of its salvation has begun to grow

Upon the restless little world below.

Now that the breath of May its greeting brings,

Come, let us hark to what they do and say.

For resurrections to the beat of wings

Each clod of earth a coffin is to-day.

Now from the earth-born heavenly courage springs;

Within them life’s sweet poison works away

That with delirious longing makes them pine

For worlds far distant from their own confine.