But waking serenely and donning its best,
For the warm March sun already is high.
Above, the arch of a white-blue sky;
Brown earth, with a touch of green, below;
Elm-boughs, uptost with a lift superb;
The melting ice and grimy snow
Playing meadow from curb to curb,
With small mud-rills in place of brooks,
And a sewer for sea!
Ah, hold, my friend,