| William Wilfred Campbell, comp. The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse. 1913. | | | | Spring | | By Jean Blewett (1862–1934) |
| | | OH, the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep, | |
| And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep. | |
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| The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves, | |
| Give never a murmur or sigh of woe—they are dead—no dead thing grieves. | |
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| No carol of love from a song-bird’s throat; the world lies naked and still, | 5 |
| For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill. | |
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| Not a flower—a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft— | |
| To lay its bloom on the dead river’s lips, that have kissed them all so oft. | |
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| But look! a ladder is spanning the space ’twixt earth and the sky beyond, | |
| A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace—the strong, the subtle, the fond! | 10 |
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| Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam’s heart, | |
| Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare—see the sap in the great trees start! | |
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| Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the colour bright, | |
| A stirring and spreading of something fair—the dawn is chasing the night! | |
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| Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein, | 15 |
| The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again. | |
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| Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair, | |
| With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair; | |
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| Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes; | |
| Spring, with enough of God in herself to make the dead arise! | 20 |
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| For see, as she bends o’er the coffin deep—the frozen valley and hill— | |
| The dead river stirs,—ah, that lingering kiss is making its heart to thrill. | |
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| And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud, | |
| Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud! | |
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| The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old, | 25 |
| And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold. | | | | |
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