Sonnet Ccxxxii: Poem by George Henry Boker

Now infant nature, just awaking, lies
Warm in the hollow of thy matron lap,
O dove-eyed Spring, and doubt might stand agape,
To see life quicken in a thing that dies.
No greater miracle foretell the wise
About the resurrection, that, mayhap,
Will startle us, when icy Death shall snap
His iron fetters, and our souls arise.
Ah! but you cry, this nature leaves behind
The linked being of its former life-
A root, a seed, a something ever rife.
How know we then what seed may sow the wind,
And float through ages, when the mortal strife
Has set our viewless atoms unconfined?