And dank and raw with Winter's freezing air,
Is Light itself today, and verdant Sheen
Gold-tinted, and besprent with perfume rare;
Translated over night to a parterre
That makes me dream of Araby and Sapin,
And all the healing places of the EArth,
Where one lays by his woe, his bitter pain,--
For peace and mirth.
Old Winter that stayed by us black and drear,
And laid his blighting seal on everything,
Is vanished.--Is it true he once was here?--
Mark how the ash-trees bud, and children sing,
And birds set up a faint, shy jargoning;
And healing balm pours out from bole and leafe.
For Spring--sweet April's here in tree and grass!
Oh foolish heart to fret so with your grief!
This too shall pass!
Published in The Crisis, April 1924