Bloodroot

When April winds arrive And the soft rains are here, Some morning by the roadside These gipsy folk appear. We never see their coming, However sharp our eyes; Each year as if by magic They take us by surprise. Along the ragged woodside And by the green spring-run, Their small white heads are nodding And twinkling in the sun. They crowd across the meadow In innocence and mirth, As if there were no sorrow In all the lovely earth. So frail, so unregarded,— And yet about them clings That exquisite perfection, The soul of common things! Think you the springing pastures Their starry vigil kept, To hear along the midnight Some message, while we slept? How else should spring requicken Such glory in the sod? I guess that trail of beauty Is where the angel trod.