It is too early for white boughs, too late <br />For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall <br />A few last flakes, ragged and delicate. <br />Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, <br />Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks <br />A rich and deepening red. The willow tree <br />Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks <br />The lean bush crouching hints old royalty, <br />Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows <br />Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose. <br /> <br />The days go out with shouting; nights are loud; <br />Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold; <br />The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold, <br />Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mid-march/
