He waits the winter's end, the dawn of spring.
7.
Spring comes no more for me: though young March blow
To flame the larches, and from tree to tree
The green fire leap, till all the woodlands glow--
Though every runnel, filled to overflow,
Bear sea-ward, loud and brown with melted snow,
Spring comes no more for me!
Spring comes no more for me: though April light
The flame of gorse above the peacock sea;