THE PLOUGHBOY
A LILAC mist maizes warm the hills, And silvery through it threads a.stream: The redbird's cadence throbs and thrills, The jaybirds scream. The bluets' stars begin to gleam, And 'mid them, whispering with the rills, The morning-hours dream.
The ploughboy Spring drives out his plough, A robin's whistle on his lips; And as he goes with lifted brow,And snaps and whips His lash of wind, a sunbeam tips, The wildflowers laugh, and on the bough The blossom skips.
The scent of winter-mellowed loam And greenwood buds is blown from him, As blithe he takes his young way home, Large, strong of limb, Along the hilltop's sunset brim, Whistling; the first star, white as foam, In his hat's blue rim.