AWAKE, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs; 

The sun has turned the point of Capricorn, 

And 'gins to pluck from winter's wings the plumes 

Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn 

For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn 

In absence of your odors and your faces; 

Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn, 

As often as she views your empty places, 

Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces. 

Come, pensile snow-drop, like the earliest star 

That twinkles on the brow of dusky night; 

Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar, 

With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight; 

And shouldst thou rise when all around is white, 

The more thou'lt demonstrate the power of God 

To shield the weak against the arms of might, 

To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load, 

And sinking hearts 'mid ills they could not full forebode. 

Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees 

Sip the first nectar of the liberal year, 

Come and illume our green, as similes 

Light up the poet's song. And O ye dear 

Spring violets, come near, come breathing near; 

You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods 

Shine forth, like heaven's constellations clear; 

And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes, 

And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.