The Waking of Spring
By Olive Custance
Spirit of Spring, thy coverlet of snow
Hath fallen from thee, with its fringe of frost,
And where the river late did overflow
Sway fragile white anemones, wind-tost,
And in the woods stand snowdrops, half asleep,
With drooping heads—sweet dreamers so long lost.
Spirit, arise! for crimson flushes creep
Into the cold grey east, where clouds assemble
To meet the sun: and earth hath ceased to weep.
Her tears tip every blade of grass, and tremble,
Caught in the cup of every flower. O Spring!
I see thee spread thy pinions, they resemble
Large delicate leaves, all silver-veined, that fling
Frail floating shadows on the forest sward;
And all the birds about thee build and sing!