There's a secret, have you guessed it, you with human eyes
and hearing--
Which the birds know, which the trees know, and by which
the earth is stirred,
Stirred through all her deep foundations, where the water-springs
are fastened,
Where the seed is, and the growth is, and the still blind life is heard?
There's a miracle, a miracle--oh mortal, have you seen it?
When the springs rise, and the saps rise, and the gallant cut-and-thrust
Of the spear-head bright battalions of the little green things growing
(Crocus-blade or grass-blade) pierce the brown earth's sullen crust?
Oh, wonder beyond speaking in the daily common happening;
But the little birds have known it, and the evening-singing thrush,
In the cold and pearly twilights that are February's token
Speaks of revelation through the falling day-time's hush.