Labor and the Angel

by Duncan Campbell Scott

While he is restless in his ecstasy.

Ah! the soft budding of the virginal woods,

Of the frail fruit trees by the vanishing lakes:

There’s the new moon where the clear sunset floods,

A trace of dew upon the rose leaf sky;

And hark! what rapture the glad robin wakes—

“When Spring goes by; Spring! Spring! When Spring goes by.”

MARCH.

Now swoops the wind from every coign and crest;

Like filaments of silver, ripped and spun,