Alive

When the wild wake-robin starts in the wood

At the joy of the earth who escapes her bars,

And the birches flutter in breezy mood,

And the quick brooks run and sing in the sun

To some strain of the song of the morning-stars;

When the gay rhodoras throng the swamp,

Like a settling cloud of winged things

All a-quiver in purple pomp,

And their green and gold the ferns unfold

To the far-heard murmur of hastening springs;

When trilliums nod, and the columbines

Spread like flames through the forest gloom;

When in open field the white-weed shines,

And the birds and bees in the apple-trees

Dart through skies of blue and bloom;

When the whole bright orb is flashing along,

With her cloudy gossamers round her curled,

A thing of blossom and leaf and song,—

Still, I cry, is He far as the farthest star,

Or living and pulsing across his world?