TO THE SPRING WIND

Ah, what a changeling!

Yester you dashed from the west,

Altho’ it is Spring,

And scattered the hail with maniac zest

Thro’ the shivering corn — in scorn

For the labour of God and man.

And now from the plentiful South you haste,

With lovingest fingers,

To ruefully lift and wooingly fan

The lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:

As if the chill waste

Of the earth's May-dreams,

The flowers so full of her joy,

Were not — as it seems —

A wanton attempt to destroy.