Her virgin raiment of winter white,
And laughs in the eyes of the Spring, her lover,
Who flings her a garland of flowers and light.
Hark how the lark in his first ascension
Fills heaven with love-songs, hovering on high;
Trust to us for the Spring’s intention,
Trust to the morn for a stormless sky.
I know the meadow for daffodowndillies,
And the haunt of the crocus purple and gold;
I’ll be Coryn, and you’ll be Phyllis,