The Waking Year. By Emily Dickinson

    A lady red upon the hill
    Her annual secret keeps;
    A lady white within the field
    In placid lily sleeps!

    The tidy breezes with their brooms
    Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!
    Prithee, my pretty housewives!
    Who may expected be?

    The neighbors do not yet suspect!
    The woods exchange a smile —
    Orchard, and buttercup, and bird —
    In such a little while!

    And yet how still the landscape stands,
    How nonchalant the wood,
    As if the resurrection
    Were nothing very odd!