Clement Wood

IT is not spring—not yet—

But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birch

Lifting a filmy red mantle of knotted buds

Above the rain-washed whiteness of her arms.

It is not spring—not yet—

But by Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting,

Thin, still, and fidgetty;

Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathers

That dawdles over the cidery autumn loam.

It is not spring—not yet—

But up the stocky Pownal hills

Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness,

Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows.

It is not spring—not yet—

But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden,

Their tall tips flinging the sun’s rays back at him;

And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crests

The willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn,

The high hill birches shine like purple plumes,

A royal head-dress for the brow of spring.

It is the doubtful, unquiet end of winter,

And spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil.