The Awakening by M. M.
Down all the rugged mountain-slopes,
Through all the mossy dells,
There comes a gentle purling sound,
Like peals of fairy bells.
A tinkling, rippling, gurgling song
Is borne on every breeze;
Mysterious whispers seem to stir
The grim old forest trees.
The tiny grasses wave their hands
And gayly nod their heads
To lazy buds, still half asleep
In cozy winter beds.
And now the riotous sunbeams come;
They draw the curtains wide;
Nor leave untouched the smallest nook
Where sleepy buds may hide.
"Awake! awake!" the whole Earth cries:
"King Winter's reign is past;
His crown he yields to his fairest child,
And Spring is Queen at last."