THE EARTH seems a desolate mother,— <br />Betrayed like the princess of old, <br />The ermine stripped from her shoulders, <br />And her bosom all naked and cold. <br /> <br />But a joy looks out from her sadness, <br />For she feels with a glad unrest <br />The throb of the unborn summer <br />Under her bare, brown breast<br /><br />Charles Harper Webb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/march-44/
