Nor till Death shall have stripped our lives as bare As the forest in wintry weather, Will the world find the nest in the covert where We dwelt, loved, and sang together. A MARCH MINSTREL Hail! once again, that sweet strong note! Loud on my loftiest larch, Thou quaverest with thy mottled throat, Hearing thee flute, who pines or grieves Scorning to wait for tuneful May While daffodils, half mournful still, Thy silvery peal o'er landscape chill Across the unsheltered pasture floats The young lamb's shivering bleat: There is no trembling in thy notes, For all the snow and sleet. Let the bullace bide till frosts have ceased, Yet who can wonder thou dost dare The selfish cuckoo tarrieth till Thou, thou art lavish of thy trill, The nightingale, while buds are coy, Brave throstle! thou dost pipe for joy, Even fond turtle-doves forbear Thou hast the heart to love and pair The skylark, fluttering to be heard Soars vainly heavenward. Thou, wise bird! Thy home is not upon the ground, Thy hope not in the sky: Near to thy nest thy notes resound, Blow what wind will, thou dost rejoice PRIMROSES I Latest, earliest of the year, When December's tottering tread Rustled 'mong the deep leaves dead, Peeped from out the sheltered places In its cradle day by day, Dead or living, hard to say; Now that mid-March blows and blusters, Out you steal in tufts and clusters, Making leafless lane and wood Vernal with your hardihood. Other lovely things are rare, You are prodigal as fair. First you come by ones and ones, II This, too, be your glory great, Primroses, you do not wait, As the other flowers do, For the Spring to smile on you, Out from every hedge you look, Nought can daunt you, nought distress, Neither cold nor sunlessness. You, when Lent sleet flies apace, Look the tempest in the face; As descend the flakes more slow, |