This is the season of wooing and
The heart of Nature calls out for its own,
And God have pity on those who are waiting
The fair unfolding of Spring, alone.
For the fowls fly north in pairs together,
And two by two are the leaves unfurled,
And the whole intent of the wind and weather
Is to waken love, in the thought of the world.
Up through the soil where the grass
To flaunt green flags in the golden light,
Each little sprout its mate is bringing
(Oh, one little sprout were a lonely sight).
We wake at dawn with the silvery patter
Of bird-notes falling like showers of rain,
And need but listen to prove their chatter
The amorous echo of love's sweet pain.
In the buzz of the bee and the strong
In the bursting bud and the heart's unrest,
The voice of Nature again is saying,
In God's own motto, that love is best.
For this is the season of wooing and mating,
The heart of Nature calls out for its own;
And oh, the sorrow of souls that are waiting
The soft unfolding of Spring, alone.
Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.
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