Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856–1935)

FATHERED by March, the daffodils are here.

First, all the air grew keen with yesterday,

And once a thrush from out some hollow gray

On a field’s edge, where whitening stalks made cheer,

Fluted the last unto the budding year;

Now, that the wind lets loose from orchard spray

Plum bloom and peach bloom down the dripping way,

Their punctual gold through the wet blades they rear.

Oh, fleet and sweet! A light to all that pass

Below, in the cramped yard, close to the street,

Long-stemmed one flames behind the palings bare,

The whole of April in a tuft of grass.

Scarce here, soon will it be—oh, sweet and fleet!—

Gone like a snatch of song upon the stair.