Tis the noon of the spring-time,
Yet never a bird In the wind-shaked elm or the maple is heard;
For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow,
And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow;
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white;
The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots;
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps,
Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers,
With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!