A Song Of A Spring-Time

By Augusta Davies Webster

TOO rash, sweet birds, spring is not spring;

   Sharp winds are fell in east and north;

   Late blossoms die for peeping forth; Rains numb, frost blights;

Days are unsunned, storms tear the nights;

   The tree-buds wilt before they swell.

   Frosts in the buds, and frost-winds fell: And you, you sing.

But let no song be sweet in spring;

   Spring is but hope for after-time,

   And what is hope but spring-tide rime? But blights, but rain?

Spring wanes unsunned, and sunless wane

   The hopes false spring-tide bore to die.

   Spring's answer is the March wind's sigh: And you, you sing.