That dawdles over the cidery Autumn loam.

It is not Spring -- not yet --
But up the stocky Pownal hills
Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness,
Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows.

It is not Spring -- not yet --
But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden,
Their tall tips flinging the sun's rays back at him;
And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crests,
The willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn,
The high hill birches shine like purple plumes,
A royal headdress for the brow of Spring.
It is the doubtful, unquiet end of Winter,
And Spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil.




In Excelsis. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]



Spring!
And all our valleys turning into green,
Remembering --
As I remember! So my heart turns glad
For so much youth and joy -- this to have had
When in my veins the tide of living fire