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 at Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting, Thin, still, and fidgety, 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 headdress for the brow of Spring. It is the doubtful, unquiet end of Winter, And Spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil.