NOT yet hath Nature, lovely colorist, <br />Bestirred her from creative dream to fling <br />Soft flame upon the woods, —nay, not to dip <br />One pleading maple-tip <br />In carmine; all the waiting world is whist, <br />Alert to hear the first faint flutes of spring. <br />Not yet the tingling flood of blue and gold <br />Is poured through heaven, but o'er the misty pond, <br />Quiet as patterned silk, flushed saplings lean; <br />And the auspicious green <br />Through the deep woods and on the unpathed wold <br />Brightens in patient moss and wistful frond. <br />Not yet cascades of melody invoke <br />The holy dawn, but all the air perceives, <br />By some fine thrill, the rushing northward flight <br />Of myriad wings, despite <br />The nonchalances of this crookback oak, <br />Still clinging to its russet shreds of leaves. <br />Not yet the laughing hid-folk of the earth <br />Thrust Up white helm and golden coronet, <br />Sweet elfin host armored in gossamer, <br />But gentle tremors stir <br />The conscious mold; new beauty comes to birth <br />Under the snow's fast-melting coverlet. <br />Not yet, not yet the yearly miracle <br />Is wrought, but ecstasy is on the wing, <br />And her divine, irrevocable flight <br />Is swift as all delight. <br />The heart is hushed as for the sacring-bell, <br />Awe-smitten by expectancy of spring.<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-yet-10/
