The First Bluebirds

THE poor earth was so winter-marred, Harried by storm so long, It seemed no spring could mend her, No tardy sunshine render Atonement for such wrong. Snow after snow, and gale and hail, Gaunt trees encased in icy mail, The glittering drifts so hard They took no trace Of scared, wild feet, No print of fox and hare Driven by dearth To forage for their meat Even in dooryard bare And frosty lawn Under the peril of the human race; And then one primrose dawn, Sweet, sweet, O sweet, And tender, tender, The bluebirds woke the happy earth With song.