I planted dry, brown, ugly bulbs
In earth dark, moist, and bare;
The chilling wind of Autumn sang
Its death-song of despair.

“Poor bulbs,” I thought and said a prayer,
“They have no chance, I fear,”
And Winter came and lingered long;
Then skies began to clear.

And with the warm spring sun there came
Long spears of brightest green
And then such proud and gorgeous blooms
They might have graced a queen.

Who, now, can watch this miracle
Of sun and rain and sod,
And still in utter truth declare,
“I don’t believe in God”?

August 2, 1942


Our House

It’s not a very big house.
We haven’t an upstairs.
It’s just an ordinary house
With beds–and books–and chairs.

It’s like a thousand houses
And a hundred thousand more–
With walls, a porch, a chimney,
With windows and a floor.

And yet, to us, it’s different;
It’s set strangely apart,
For each plant and board and thread
Is entangled in our heart.

So many little houses
In this land of the free and blest–
Yet to each family, one house
Is so different from the rest.

December 24, 1939

Pensive Day

Bare trees gently swaying
Against a pearl-gray sky–
Oh, what diverse emotions
Within my body lie!

I’m restless, and I’m peaceful,
And suddenly I’m blue,
And gloriously happy,
And discontented, too.

It must have been, I think,
On such gray, quiet days,
That Caesar planned his battles–
That Shakespeare wrote his plays.

February 13, 1938

Breath of Spring

Of what consists the breath of spring?
Of red of breast and gray of wing
And the first notes that the robins sing;
Of faint green tracery of leaves,
Of pale moonlight while the hoot owl grieves,
And the spell that rippling water weaves;
Of scent of roses in the air
And daffodils so debonair,
Of sun-drenched beauty everywhere;
Cold dew where morning glories cling,
The loveliness a shower can bring–
Of such consists the breath of spring.

March 10, 1940