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.

Graphics By Perfsworld.