To Everything There is a New Season . . .
New -Turned Soil
The smell of new-turned garden soil
Is in the air. With patient toil
The musk of earth is freed
From Winter's cell . . .
Each shovelful is like an urn
Diffusing redolent odor;
A freshness comes with each upturn
Of living earth . . .
A scent a rose may not escel.