Who is the worker, the worker of wonder,
Abroad in the blue and the gold of the morn?
The heart o' me whispers that over and under
Each moment are rapture and ecstasy born.

There's a glint in the rain that goes sweeping and striding
The levels and crests, and it lilts as it goes;
There's hint in the blossoms half peering, half hiding,
Of the tint that shall flush on the leaf of the rose.

But yesterday all earth seemed barren and sterile;
And, save for the wind, Nature's voices were mute,
Now every wide slope waves in undulant beryl,
And forest and rill have the lips of a flute!

Who is the worker, the worker of wonder,
The touch of whose hand has enkindled the sod,
Brought life out of death, cleft the silence asunder? —
The spirit of Spring, yea, the spirit of God!