Prospero of the North

Young day has flung his saffron banner out,

And the first beamy spear-tips prick the world.

Straightway my wee ones will I set to work.

The hemlocks listen, the sullen brook runs dark,

Grim joy glows in the bones of the hoar oak;

How strong he is, and shapely! — Hither, chicks!

First, you that know the chambers of the winds,

See that they all are barred; let not a breath

Come forth of them. This done, lay hold, draw up

The sagging cloud that hangs behind yon mount,

And stretch his leaden length from east to west. —

The mild, the social, maples lean this way,

Hearing my words, and the clean beeches clap

Their scattered leaves; attentive turns the birch,

High-bred and delicate, and right happy nod

The water-loving alders. — Hear me, chicks!

Soon as the first flake flutters in the calm,

Caught like the thistledown in spider's web,

Get you abroad, and, as the white flowers come,

Consign them to the use of beauty; guide

And stay them through the grave and decent day.

Hark! we must have unguessed devices wrought;

Far up and down the unbroken loveliness

Must run so wondrous waves and dimply curves

Heaven shall reshape her clouds, and still despair

To match your magic. Mischiefs, mark me well!

Hood the prim steeple so the silly bell

Shall wag without a sound; pad soft the rock,

Stuff every hollow, cushion every knoll,

Ay, drape all nakedness to the utmost stretch

Of antic fancy, — bush and shrub and bough

And stump and stub and pole; on fence and wall

Bring to the task most exquisite caprice;

So fair confusion let wild beauty work

No man will know his own. Away! Away!