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Augusta Davies Webster - A Song Of A Spring-Time
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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.
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