Last Spring

THIS morning at the door I heard the Spring. Quickly I set it wide And, welcoming, "Come in, sweet Spring," I cried, "The winter ash, long dried, Waits but your breath to rise On phantom wing."

A brown leaf shivered by, A soulless thing— My heart in quick dismay Forgot to sing— Twisted and grim it lay, Kin to the ghost-ash gray, Dead, dead—strange herald this Of jocund Spring!

I spurned it from the door. I longed that Spring Should come with song and glow And rush of wing, Not this, not this!—But O Dead leaf, a year ago You were the dear first-born Of Hope and Spring!