Which yet joined not scent to hue,
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous

Billows murmur at our feet,

Where the earth and ocean meet,

And all things seem only one

In the universal sun.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

SPRING

Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis Arboribusque comae.

Now the North wind ceases,

The warm South-West awakes;
Swift fly the fleeces,

Horace

SPRING

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

PORN is the winter rug of white,

WORN

And in the snow-bare spots once more Glimpses of faint green grass in sight,— Spring's footprints on the floor.

Upon the sombre forest gates

A crimson flush the mornings catch, The token of the Spring who waits With finger on the latch.

Blow, bugles of the south, and win

The warders from their dreams too long,
And bid them let the new guest in
With her glad hosts of song.

She shall make bright the dismal ways
With broideries of bud and bloom,
With music fill the nights and days
And end the garden's gloom.

Her face is lovely with the sun;
Her voice-ah, listen to it now!

The silence of the year is done:
The bird is on the bough!

Spring here, by what magician's touch?
'Twas winter scarce an hour ago.
And yet I should have guessed as much,—
Those footprints in the snow!

Frank Dempster Sherman