In March the earliest bluebird came
And caroled from the orchard-tree
His little tremulous songs to me,
And called upon the summer's name,
And made old summers in my heart
All sweet with flower and sun again;
So that I said, “O, not in vain
Shall be thy lay of little art,
“Though never summer sun may glow,
Nor summer flower for thee may bloom;
Though winter turn in sudden gloom,
And drowse the stirring spring with snow”;
And learned to trust, if I should call
Upon the sacred name of Song,
Though chill through March I languish long,
And never feel the May at all,
Yet may I touch, in some who hear,
The hearts, wherein old songs asleep
Wait but the feeblest touch to leap
In music sweet as summer air!
I sing in March brief bluebird lays,
And hope a May, and do not know:
May be, the heaven is full of snow,—
May be, there open summer days.