Burst ice and rime In equinoctial splendor.
Up leaped Winter and stared with his hands over his brows.
Down below in the valley stood the Prince of Spring, young and straight in his green garb, with the lute slung over his shoulder. His long hair waved in the wind and his face was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling and his eyes were dreamy and moist.
HOW SPRING AND WINTER MET
The Winter and the Spring were met: The Winter threw a fleecy net, And caught the young Spring over night.
He put to sleep the budding tree Within a cloister dim and white; And the little golden crocus flower, That comes too early for the bee, He hid away from sunrise hour.
The brook was conscious of his power And lost its trick of babbling words.
But Spring awoke, despite his craft, And out of windows looked and laughed.
At first he set to sing all birds, With twittering voices small and clear, And bade them say they felt no grief To find the snow and mildewed leaf Heaped up in nests they built last year.
Then found a crystal alcove high The bluebird carolled to the sky.
The robin whistled cheer, good cheer!
The sparrow rung his matin bells, And far away in reedy dells The quail a friendly greeting sent.
Then was the stifled pine not loth To shuffle off the dull white sloth; Then leaped the brook by icy stair, And snapped his fetters as he went; The sun shone out most full and fair, And Winter rose and struck his tent.
Edith M. Thomas.