Spring

No more the sundog on the sky,

An omen of impending storm;

No more the snowflakes fiercely fly,

Or eddying blast the snowdrifts form.

The crystal mantle that o’erspread

Forms fair, or wasting, now decays –

No more conceals the wild rose dead,

No more withstands the springtide rays.

The soft south wind that becks the spring

Purveys from snowbanks ling’ring still,

On hillside or in vale to bring,

Early flowrets near the rill.

The swollen stream that freights the rill

With pleasing murmur night and day,

By devious windings onward still

To lake or ocean far away.

The unpent herds to yonder vale

The scent of springing herb invite;

The wild goose quacking in the gale,

Resumes again its polar flight.

The swan and mallard now are seen

Disporting in the lakelet near;

Behind the knoll, his form to screen,

Slow creeps the sportsman, whom they fear.

The hardy farmer, busy now,

Resumes again his wonted toil –

Driving his harrow, or his plow,

Sows the seed and stirs the soil.

And if he rightly use the means,

And the precept wisely keep,

Have full assurance, as he gleans,

That, as he sows, so shall he reap.

P.

Durant, Iowa, April 1862

– Published in The Davenport Daily Gazette, Davenport, Iowa, Wednesday Morning, April 2, 1862, p. 2