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Spring has come to Youngsville,
And to the Blue Ridge,
And to Chicago.
It has come to the farmlands
And to the high places,
And to the cities of skyscrapers.
Now it is not a thing of fragrance
In the apple orchards
And young love kissing in the dark,
Or the warm, peaceful smell of lilacs in the backyard hedges.
It is not the spring
Of frivolous dresses arrayed in plate glass store windows.
This is the spring of war,
And hard, bitter mouths on the faces of youth,
And rough, intense, and brtutal love, harsh and wise and much too old.
The dresses in the smart shops are mannish and tailored and "styled for defense."
The faces of people are stilled.
Smooth. Unreadable. Untelling.
They are worn, and tired, and sleepless,
Warring peole--with hunted eyes--
Fatigued and bewildered.
But always, always, there is the earth,
Turning green again with hope,
Renewing, growing.
Always there are the prairies, and the rivers, and the mountains.
Always there is the rebirth and the hope and the democracy of the earth.
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