On Doward Hill the Spring will not be rushed.

A dandelion gleams, anemones
star spangle banks, but we are not deceived.

Birds joyful anthems cannot make us think
curmudgeon winter has released his grip.

How he hangs on! And not until the sun,
gathering strength, finally topples him,
does he capitulate. Gives his last kick,

then leaves the green, god king to rule the woods
and weave his ancient magic yet again
by conjuring that trick which never palls.

From bare, black boughs, long racked by icy winds
he draws such unbelievable and varied greens

that we, who can recall so many Springs,
greet this one with that awe we viewed the first.

Green upon green, each year its reach extends,
a sea of verdure with no limits set.

Green over spill, unstoppable largesse.
Vast layers of green in mighty sweeps and falls.

And we, who have been starved of green so long
Feel now that we could almost drown in it.