Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds:
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter’s sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.