Mid-March

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