The Awakening
You little, eager, peeping thing—
You embryonic point of light
Pushing from out your winter night,
How you do make my pulses sing!
A tiny eye amid the gloom—
The merest speck I scarce had seen—
So doth God’s rapture rend the tomb
In this wee burst of April green!
And lo, ’tis here—and lo! ’Tis there—
Spurting its jets of sweet desire
In upward curling threads of fire
Like tapers kindling all the air.
Why, scarce it seems an hour ago
These branches clashed in bitter cold;
What Power hath set their veins aglow?
O soul of mine, be bold, be bold!
If from this tree, this blackened thing,
Hard as the floor my feet have prest,
This flame of joy comes clamoring
In hues as red as robin’s breast
Waking to life this little twig—
O faith of mine, be big! Be big!
Angela Morgan