by Robert Frost

In the misty hollow, shyly greening branches

Soften to the south wind, bending to the rain.

From the moistened earth land flutter little whispers,

Breathing hidden beauty, innocent of stain.

Little plucking fingers tremble through the grasses,

Little silent voices sigh the dawn of spring,

Little burning earth-flames break the awful stillness,

Little crying wind-sounds come before the King.

Powers, dominations urge the budding of the crocus,

Cherubim are singing in the moist cool stone,

Seraphim are calling through the channels of the lily,

Mother Nature has heard the earth-cry and journeys to Her throne.