The Miracle of Spring.

A poem by Hattie Howard

What touch is like the Spring's?
By dainty fingerings
Such rare delight to give,
'Tis luxury to live
Amid florescent things.

Through weary months of snow
When Boreas swept low,
How many an anxious hour
We watched one little flower,
And tried to make it grow;

And thrilled with ecstasy
When, half distrustfully,
A timid bud appeared,
A tender scion reared
In window greenery.

But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom
And richness of perfume
Comes as by miracle;
Then why not possible
Within a curtained room?

Ah, no! that everywhere
The earth is passing fair,
And strange new life hath caught,
Is but the marvel wrought
By sunlight, rain, and air.

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