Beneath the elm trees in the north hill field,

There we two lay last springtime in that grass

The mowers never cut, the valley wind

Comes cool. The frost has left the pasture soil

And roots are green. A few small weeds have grown

Between the flattened stones that made our seat.

The nest still hangs that we watched being built

All through one April day. The clump of pines

Looks even darker green against bare fields,

And those black rocks are wet with melting ice.

But spring is coming, and the pasture path

Is dry, and it will need us both to set

The stepping stones in Bagley Brook back straight,

The sap smells sweet where they have trimmed the trees

And cut them, They are burning underbrush

Across the wall, with clouds of smoke you liked,

Beneath the elms the sunlight still pours in

At noon, Our den that lies so deep in shade

When leaves are full, is bright and open now,

But yesterday I saw a new leaf bud

On that low limb, and now to-day two more,