A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER.
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Too soft for arrows of the sun to mar,
Moves with the mild gait of an ungrown moon:
Hard overhead the half‑lit crescent swims,
The tender‑coloured night draws hardly breath,
The light is listening;
They watch the dawn of slender‑shapen limbs,
Virginal, born again of doubtful death,
Chill foster‑father of the weanling spring.
iv.
As dreams of love before the true love born,
From the outer edge of winter overworn
The ghost arisen of May before the May
Takes through dim air her unawakened way,
The gracious ghost of morning risen ere morn.
With little unblown breasts and child‑eyed looks
Following, the very maid, the girl‑child spring,
Lifts windward her bright brows,
Dips her light feet in warm and moving brooks,
