It does not take a poet
Or laureate to a king
To see the fresh new beauty
As grass begins to spring
All herbs and flowers show it
As spring goes on her duty

And one though weak and helpless
And with no tongue to sing
May smell fresh leaves unfolding
And will their tribute bring
For all nature must confess
To the beauty she is holding

The air all moisture laden
And colors on display
Mrs nature knows her duty
As birds begin to lay
So like a gentle maiden
She blossoms into beauty

And though man may not see it
Yet underneath the ground
An army of Gods creatures
All answer to the sound
The moth and bug begin to flit
And start another round.

The smallest seed bursts and swells
In answer to Gods call
Minutely cast they have a task
And they to their duty fall
Until by smells all nature tells
And no one’s obliged to ask.

Whence comes this power to grow?
And how is it that we feel it
Whence comes the power to crack the shell?
Who tells the birdie when to sit?
How do they instinct know?
And who makes the seed to swell?

Who telephones the crocus bulb?
Who informs the daffodil?
Or what calendar informs
Those little bulbs to fill
Or gives the sleepy squirrel a rub
And tells him of the storms?

Who stirs the slender tulip
Within its narrow bed
What almanac proclaimed the date
When she should raise her head
Or told the little lamb to skip
How do they generate?

H E Crane