TOO rash, sweet birds, spring is not spring; <br />Sharp winds are fell in east and north; <br />Late blossoms die for peeping forth; Rains numb, frost blights; <br />Days are unsunned, storms tear the nights; <br />The tree-buds wilt before they swell. <br />Frosts in the buds, and frost-winds fell: And you, you sing. <br /> <br />But let no song be sweet in spring; <br />Spring is but hope for after-time, <br />And what is hope but spring-tide rime? But blights, but rain? <br />Spring wanes unsunned, and sunless wane <br />The hopes false spring-tide bore to die. <br />Spring's answer is the March wind's sigh: And you, you sing.<br /><br />Augusta Davies Webster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-of-a-spring-time/
