When April winds arrive <br />And the soft rains are here, <br />Some morning by the roadside <br />These gipsy folk appear. <br />We never see their coming, <br />However sharp our eyes; <br />Each year as if by magic <br />They take us by surprise. <br />Along the ragged woodside <br />And by the green spring-run, <br />Their small white heads are nodding <br />And twinkling in the sun. <br />They crowd across the meadow <br />In innocence and mirth, <br />As if there were no sorrow <br />In all the lovely earth. <br />So frail, so unregarded,— <br />And yet about them clings <br />That exquisite perfection, <br />The soul of common things! <br />Think you the springing pastures <br />Their starry vigil kept, <br />To hear along the midnight <br />Some message, while we slept? <br />How else should spring requicken <br />Such glory in the sod? <br />I guess that trail of beauty <br />Is where the angel trod.<br /><br />Bliss William Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bloodroot/
