A bird from yonder branch at dawn Is trilling forth a joyful note, Or hopping o'er the frozen lawn, In yellow boots and ebon coat.
It is the blackbird credulous. Little of calendar knows he, Whose soul, with sunbeams luminous, Sings April to the snows that be.
Rain sweeps in torrents unrepressed. The Arve makes dull the Rhone with mire. The pleasant hall retains its guest In goodly cheer before the fire.
The mountains have their ermine on, Each one a mighty magistrate, And hold grave conference upon A case of Winter lasting late.
The bird dries well his wing, and long, Despite the rains, the mists that roll, Insists upon his little song, Believes in Spring with all his soul.
He softly chides the slumberous morn For dallying so long abed, And bids the shivering flower forlorn Be bold, and raise aloft its head;
Behind the dark sees day that smiles, Even as behind the Holy Rod, When bare the altar, dim the aisles, The child of faith beholds his God.
He trusts to Nature's purpose high, Sure of her laws for here and now. Who laughs at thy philosophy, Dear blackbird, is less wise than thou!
The chestnut trees are soon to flower At fair _Saint Jean,_ the villa dipped In sun, before whose viny tower Stretch purple mountains silver-tipped.
The little leaves that yesterday Pressed in their bodices were seen Have put their sober garb away, And touched the tender twigs with green.
But vainly do the sunbeams fill The branches with a flood of light. The shy bud hesitateth still To show the secret thyrse of white.
And yet the rosy peach-tree blooms, Like some faint blush of first desire. The apple waves a wealth of plumes, And laughs in all its fresh attire.
To bask amid the buttercups The timid speedwell ventures out. Nature calls every earthling up, And reassures each tiny sprout.
Yet I must off to other sphere! Then please your poet, chestnuts tall, Yea, spread ye forth without a fear Your firework bloom fantastical!
I know your summer splendour's pride. I've seen you standing sumptuous In autumn's tunics purple-dyed, With golden circlets luminous.
In winter white and crystal-crossed Your delicate boughs I saw again,-- Like lovely traceries the frost Limns lightly on the window-pane.
Your every garment I have known, Ye chestnuts grand that loom aloft,-- Save one to me you've never shown, Of young green fabric first and soft.