I
Grim clouds are herding slow across the sky;
The east wind licks the cheek with its rough tongue;
The pallid fields are winter bleached and dry;
But from the coppice comes a throstle's song,
Vivid and eager, unashamed of hope,
Whilst twigs are big with sap against the grey,
And harsh rough riding Winter shall not cope
Much longer with this Colt that strains alway
To free its head, its gallant heels to fling,
And riot down the high, adventurous roads of Spring.
II
In the bleak town I thought that Winter had
Subdued mankind and bent them to his will,
Their wind-nipped faces seemed so thin and sad,
Their naked houses seemed so gaunt and chill.
Till in a school's asphalted, fenced pen
I saw a hundred urchins swarm at play-
Bright as a tulip field on the black fen,
Noisy as rooks upon a ploughing day-
Then in those bitter streets Spring's banners straight did show
In stronger force than where her snowdrops pierce the snow.