THE PROCESSION OF SPRING.

A morning of radiant lids O'er the dance of the earth opened wide; The bees chose their flowers, the snub kids Upon hind legs went sportive, or plied, Nosing, hard at the dugs to be filled; There was milk, honey, music to make; Up their branches the little birds billed; Chirrup, drone, bleat, and buzz ringed the lake. O shining in sunlight, chief After water and water's caress, Was the young bronze orange leaf, That clung to the trees as a tress, Shooting lucid tendrils to wed With the vine hook tree or pole, Like Arachne launched out on her thread. Then the maiden her dusky stole, In the span of the black-starred zone, Gathered up for her footing fleet. As one that had toil of her own She followed the lines of wheat Tripping straight through the field, green blades, To the groves of olive gray, Downy gray, golden-tinged; and to glades Where the pear blossom thickens the spray In a night, like the snow-packed storm; Pear, apple, almond, plum; Not wintry now; pushing warm. And she touched them with finger and thumb, As the vine hook closes; she smiled, Recounting again and again, Corn, wine, fruit, oil! like a child, With the meaning known to men. —George Meredith.