 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
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A FEBRUARY DAY
The birds were crying by the lake
That Winter's chain would never break;
On brittle ice the seagulls slid,
And under leaves and mould was hid
The secret that will take the air
With sudden sweetness everywhere,
Proclaimed by daffodils with might
From trumpet-flowers of gold and white.
That Winter's chain would never break;
On brittle ice the seagulls slid,
And under leaves and mould was hid
The secret that will take the air
With sudden sweetness everywhere,
Proclaimed by daffodils with might
From trumpet-flowers of gold and white.
Along the edges of the grass,
And in the ruts where cart-wheels pass,
A border of unmelted snow
Lay, that the Spring herself might know
'Twas not yet time for her to keep
Tryst with the blossoms still asleep,
To wake the squirrel in his hole,
From chrysalid to call the soul.
And in the ruts where cart-wheels pass,
A border of unmelted snow
Lay, that the Spring herself might know
'Twas not yet time for her to keep
Tryst with the blossoms still asleep,
To wake the squirrel in his hole,
From chrysalid to call the soul.
Tall rods of winter jasmine stood
Naked of leaves, but glad of mood,
Covered with golden flowers for sign
That Spring would come, and cowslips shine
In those brown spaces 'neath the trees
Where only last year's leaves one sees
Heaped sadly as the last wind drave
Them to and fro the lily's grave.
Naked of leaves, but glad of mood,
Covered with golden flowers for sign
That Spring would come, and cowslips shine
In those brown spaces 'neath the trees
Where only last year's leaves one sees
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Them to and fro the lily's grave.
A robin on a holly-bough
Sang as if pairing-time were now
And not a wintry week away:
The brightest colour of the day
Was on his orange-feathered breast.
The silent starlings stepped in quest
Of food, where new-cut sods were turned.
High overhead a pale sun burned.
Sang as if pairing-time were now
And not a wintry week away:
The brightest colour of the day
Was on his orange-feathered breast.
The silent starlings stepped in quest
Of food, where new-cut sods were turned.
High overhead a pale sun burned.
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