To See Earth Fully We Already Need

I Still Find Each Day Too Short.

All Sounds Are Sharper In Winter; The Air Transmits Better. At Night I Hear More Distinctly The Steady Roar Of The North Mountain. In Summer It Is A Sort Of Complacent Purr, As The Breezes Stroke Down Its Sides; But In Winter Always The Same Low, Sullen Growl.

The Sunbeams Are Welcome Now. They Seem Like Pure Electricity—like Friendly And Recuperating Lightning. Are We Led To Think Electricity Abounds Only In Summer, When We See In The Storm-clouds As It Were, The Veins And Ore-beds Of It? I Imagine It Is Equally Abundant In Winter, And More Equable And Better Tempered. Who Ever Breasted A Snowstorm Without Being Excited And Exhilarated, As If This Meteor Had Come Charged With Latent Auroræ Of The North, As Doubtless It Has? It Is Like Being Pelted With Sparks From A Battery.

The Bluebird Enjoys The Preeminence Of Being The First Bit Of Color That Cheers Our Northern Landscape. The Other Birds That Arrive About The Same Time--the Sparrow, The Robin, The Phoebe-bird--are Clad In Neutral Tints, Gray, Brown, Or Russet; But The Bluebird Brings One Of The Primary Hues And The Divinest Of Them All.

Oh, Spring Is Surely Coming, Her Couriers Fill The Air; Each Morn Are New Arrivals, Each Night Her Ways Prepare; I Scent Her Fragrant Garments, Her Foot Is On The Stair.