The rooks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies,
Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud,
Hid in the warm white cloud
Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise
The milky low of cows and farm-yard cries.
From windy heavens the climbing sun shall shine,
And February greet you like a maid
In russet cloak array’d;
And you shall take her for your mistress fine,
And pluck a crocus for her valentine.