The snows have joined the little streams and slid into the sea;
The mountain sides are damp and black and steaming in the sun;
But Spring, who should be with us now, is waiting timidly
For Winter to unbar the gates and let the rivers run.
It matters not how green the grass is lifting through the mold,
How strong the sap is climbing out to every naked bough,
That in the towns the market-stalls are bright with jonquil gold,
And over marsh and meadowland the frogs are fluting now.
For still the waters groan and grind beneath the icy floor,
And still the winds are hungry-cold that leave the valley's mouth.
Expectantly each day we wait to hear the sullen roar.
And see the blind and broken herd retreating to the south.
One morning when the rain-birds call across the singing rills,
And the maple buds like tiny flames shine red among the green,
The ice will burst asunder and go pounding through the hills—
An endless gray procession with the yellow flood between,
Then the Spring will no more linger, but come with joyous shout,
With music in the city squares and laughter down the lane;
The thrush will pipe at twilight to draw the blossoms out,
And the vanguard of the summer host will camp with us again.