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While yet we wait for spring and from the dry

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Written by Robert Seymour Bridges

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 While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry 
And blackening east that so embitters March, 
Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch, 
And driven dust and withering snowflake fly; 
Already in glimpses of the tarnish'd sky 
The sun is warm and beckons to the larch, 
And where the covert hazels interarch 
Their tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.
Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid A million buds but stay their blossoming; And trustful birds have built their nests amid The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing Till one soft shower from the south shall bid, And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.


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