Poem Hunter


March! And the brook still ice-bound,
And grass all brown and grey.
From a leafless tree comes a rasping sound,
The cry of a scolding jay.

The sky hangs leaden over all.
The pines that top the hill
Heave and moan in each sudden squall
Of the north wind, cold and chill.

Thus, come the darkened days of grey
With their nights so wild and drear.
The mind is caught in the gruesome sway
And awed with a mystic fear.

March! A warm sun unshackles
The brook. Songsparrows sing.
On the green lawn gather the grackles.
The sky turns blue. 'Tis Spring! 'Tis Spring!


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