From all these mounds, though day blows fresh and warm,

By Anne Whitney

From all these mounds, though day blows fresh and warm,
The wasting snow of this snow-haunted spring
Marks out her nameless hillock; lingering
As loth to rifle of its virgin charm,
That spot of all. No sudden-winged alarm
The little blue-bird takes, that looks abroad
From yon top twig, with prophecy o'erflowed
Beyond all dread or heeding; -- hark! so calm
Rills forth his vocal sunshine on the air!
A frail hepatica has here forerun
The bounty of the season. -- Ah, forbear!
Take no life here: the aspiring dust has won
To other bloom and sweetness -- let us share
With God's mute confidant this vernal sun.