Bloodroot

When April winds arrive

And the soft rains are here,

Some morning by the roadside

These Fairy folk appear.

We never see their coming,

However sharp our eyes;

Each year as if by magic

They take us by surprise.

Along the ragged woodside

And by the green spring-run,

Their small white heads are nodding

And twinkling in the sun.

They crowd across the meadow

In innocence and mirth,

As if there were no sorrow

In all this wondrous earth.

So frail, so unregarded,

And yet about them clings

A sorcery of welcome,—

The joy of common things.

Perhaps their trail of beauty

Across the pasture sod

In jubilant procession

Is where an angel trod.