I HEARD the voice of Spring—I saw her look
Out of the naked wood, and, on the green,
Traced the frail pattern of her steps unseen,
Toward Winter’s house which he this day forsook:
There she hath turned the leaves of Time’s sad book,
Seeking the songs, well-nigh forgotten clean
By faltering birds in Winter’s dark demesne,
O’erborne by bitter winds that none may brook.
Art thou so near! And we still all unmeet
To give thee welcome? Due with service clear