Anne Whitney



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.


Copyright 1859
346 & 348 Broadway
D. Appleton & Company
New York

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