Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
The meadow your walks have left so sweet
That wherever a March wind sighs,
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes.
—ALFRED TENNYSON.
The warring hosts of Winter and of Spring
Are hurtling o’er the plains.
All night I heard their battle clarions ring