Florence D. Snelling

IN the sweet March morning

On the upland road

Sunshine and Blue Moth

And I were abroad.

Like a voice the Silence

Where old leaves lay dead:

“Make straight a highway

For the Spring!” it said.

O East, there still are stars (a sign for sleep!)

Like daffodils in a dark garden springing,

While the white moon slips down that other deep

Of West, with low clouds clinging.

We wake for day, my armored-pine and I,

But only Watchman Wind goes lightly by,

His “All’s well!” singing.

III

I have listened, O wind—

I must go.

The valleys below

Into blossom are breaking,

But snow

I shall find

On the way I am taking,

I know.

Level lands become steep,

Rough with stone.

There goes none

On this journey uncharted,

Save one

Who will keep

To the heights joyous-hearted,

Alone.

I have felt thee, O wind,

Out of space

Touch my face.

There shall be no returning.

New ways

Feet must find,

And the slow lips be learning

New praise.