O, but the distance clears! O, but the daylight grows! p. 11Soon shall the pied wind-flowers Babble of greening hours, Primrose and daffodil Yearn to a fathering sun, The lark have all his will, The thrush be never done, And April, May, and June Go to the same blythe tune As this blythe dream of mine! Moon when the crocus peers, Moon when the violet blows, February Fair-Maid, Haste, and let come the rose—  Let come the rose!

p. 11

p. 12III

p. 12

The night dislimns, and breaks Like snows slow thawn; An evil wind awakes On lea and lawn; The low East quakes; and hark! Out of the kindless dark, A fierce, protesting lark, High in the horror of dawn!

A shivering streak of light, A scurry of rain: Bleak day from bleaker night Creeps pinched and fain; The old gloom thins and dies, And in the wretched skies A new gloom, sick to rise, Sprawls, like a thing in pain.

p. 13And yet, what matter—say!—  The shuddering trees, The Easter-stricken day, The sodden leas? The good bird, wing and wing With Time, finds heart to sing, As he were hastening The swallow o’er the seas.

p. 13

p. 14IV

p. 14

It came with the year’s first crocus In a world of winds and snows— Because it would, because it must, Because of life and time and lust; And a year’s first crocus served my turn As well as the year’s first rose.

The March rack hurries and hectors, The March dust heaps and blows; But the primrose flouts the daffodil, And here’s the patient violet still; And the year’s first crocus brought me luck, So hey for the year’s first rose!

p. 15V

p. 15

The good South-West on sea-worn wings Comes shepherding the good rain; The brave Sea breaks, and glooms, and swings, A weltering, glittering plain.

Sound, Sea of England, sound and shine, Blow, English Wind, amain, Till in this old, gray heart of mine The Spring need wake again!

p. 16VI

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