Last Week Of February, 1890

Hark to the merry birds, hark how they sing! Although 'tis not yet spring And keen the air; Hale Winter, half resigning ere he go, Doth to his heiress shew His kingdom fair.

In patient russet is his forest spread, All bright with bramble red, With beechen moss And holly sheen: the oak silver and stark Sunneth his aged bark And wrinkled boss.

But neath the ruin of the withered brake Primroses now awake From nursing shades: The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown Avails not to keep down The hyacinth blades.

The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed; The willow's flossy tuft Hath slipped him free: The rose amid her ransacked orange hips Braggeth the tender tips Of bowers to be.

A black rook stirs the branches here and there, Foraging to repair His broken home: And hark, on the ash-boughs! Never thrush did sing Louder in praise of spring, When spring is come.

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