The trees are afraid to put forth buds,

And there is timidity in the grass;

The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,

   And whether next week will pass

Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush

   Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop’s face betrays no gloom,

And the primrose pants in its heedless push,

Though the myrtle asks if it’s worth the fight

   This year with frost and rime

   To venture one more time

On delicate leaves and buttons of white

From the selfsame bough as at last year’s prime,

And never to ruminate on or remember

What happened to it in mid-December.

April 1917.