She sings the sunrise new with liquid song
and flips the dew from her renewing perch.
Amidst the woods in spring still growing strong
and branches freshening on oak and birch,
she wings her way, summer's dusty herald
announcing coming warmth to field and wood
and calling trees to spread their emerald
to shade the floor that sleeps in winter's hood.
The spring arises with her melody
and stretches out the creepers cramped by cold.
She limbers up the limbs upon the tree
so sap will flow like blood, while moss, like mold,
will creep and spread in silent forward rush
unlike the singing, winging, flying thrush.
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