LXXXVI

A LADY red upon the hill

   Her annual secret keeps;

A lady white within the field

   In placid lily sleeps!

 

The tidy breezes with their brooms

   Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!

Prithee, my pretty housewives!

   Who may expected he?

 

The neighbors do not yet suspect!

   The woods exchange a smile—

Orchard, and buttercup, and bird—

   In such a little while!

And yet how still the landscape stands,

   How nonchalant the wood,

As if the resurrection

   Were nothing very odd!