Primavera

Spring has arrived.It is no use your telling me to look at the calendar,And saying that it is five good days to the twenty-first of March.Is the year bound to obey the almanac-makers?O model of all egregious pedants!Would you shackle Spring to times and seasons,And catch her back by her long green skirtTill the moment you have planned for her?She has stolen a march this year, for certain.To-day, at sunrise, I saw a white-breasted nut-hatchRunning up the branch of the oak-treeThat was so broken by the ice-storm last December,And in the garden a pheasant was picking grainsOut of the manure covering the garden-beds.There is a snowdrop up by the porch,Shot clean through the tulip-straw;And the crows are all agog over my neighbour's pine-trees.It is a game of catch-who-catch-can with that green skirt then.Even though, in your passion for order, you bring about a snow storm to-morrow,It will not matter to me.This morning, beyond the shadow of a doubt, I saw the Spring.