Here you will find thePoemNot Yetof poet Katharine Lee Bates
NOT yet hath Nature, lovely colorist, Bestirred her from creative dream to fling Soft flame upon the woods, ?nay, not to dip One pleading maple-tip In carmine; all the waiting world is whist, Alert to hear the first faint flutes of spring. Not yet the tingling flood of blue and gold Is poured through heaven, but o'er the misty pond, Quiet as patterned silk, flushed saplings lean; And the auspicious green Through the deep woods and on the unpathed wold Brightens in patient moss and wistful frond. Not yet cascades of melody invoke The holy dawn, but all the air perceives, By some fine thrill, the rushing northward flight Of myriad wings, despite The nonchalances of this crookback oak, Still clinging to its russet shreds of leaves. Not yet the laughing hid-folk of the earth Thrust Up white helm and golden coronet, Sweet elfin host armored in gossamer, But gentle tremors stir The conscious mold; new beauty comes to birth Under the snow's fast-melting coverlet. Not yet, not yet the yearly miracle Is wrought, but ecstasy is on the wing, And her divine, irrevocable flight Is swift as all delight. The heart is hushed as for the sacring-bell, Awe-smitten by expectancy of spring.
