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The waking 1948
{{mergeto|Theodore Roethke}}⏎
The Waking (1948)

I strolled across
An open field;

The sun was out;
Heat was happy.

This way!This way!
The wren's throat shimmered,

Either to other,
The blossoms sang.

The stones sang, 
The little ones did,

And flowers jumped 
Like small goats.

A ragged fringe
Of daisies waved;

I wasn't alone
In a grove of apples.

Far in the wood
A nestling sighed;

The dew loosened
Its morning smells.

I came where the river
Ran over stones:

My ears knew
An early joy.

And all the waters 
Of all the streams

Sang in my veins
That summer day. 


Theodore Roethke