IV
The Waking Year
A lady red upon the hillHer annual secret keeps;A lady white within the fieldIn placid lily sleeps!
The tidy breezes with their broomsSweep vale, and hill, and tree!Prithee, my pretty housewives!Who may expected be?
The neighbors do not yet suspect!The woods exchange a smile—Orchard, and buttercup, and bird—In such a little while!
And yet how still the landscape stands,How nonchalant the wood,As if the resurrectionWere nothing very odd!