by Helen Welshimer
I know it is spring . . . the sky’s so blue,
The earth’s high ceiling is practically new.
The iris is up. . . when the wind is blowing
I smell wet sod where the grass is growing.
And now and again my heart turns over
At the scent of lilacs or sweet white clover.
I know it is spring . . . the rain’s so light
As it sings in the trees through half a night.
And once in a while the air’s a-tremble
With colored wings as the birds assemble.
The world is gayer, and walking from
New-plowed fields I have heard bees hum.
I know it is sprig . . . for an old, old book,
Where farmers and gardeners and townsmen look
For comfort and wisdom and joy and peace,
Says that the seasons never will cease
As long as the earth remaineth . . . so -
Since winter is gone, it’s spring. I know.