By Rebecca Hey
Though Winter still asserts his right to reign,
He sways his sceptre now with gentler hand;
Nay, sometimes softens to a zephyr bland
The hurrying blast, which erst along the plain
Drove the skin-piercing sleet and pelting rain
In headlong rage; while, ever and anon,
He draws aside his veil of vapours dun,
That the bright sun may smile on us again.
To-day ‘twould seem (so soft the west wind’s sigh)
That the mild spirit of the infant Spring
Was brooding o’er the spots where hidden lie
Such early flowers as are the first to fling
On earth’s green lap their wreaths of various dye—
Flowers, round whose forms sweet hopes and sweeter memories cling.