WHIRL, snow, on the blackbird's chatter; You will not hinder his song to come. East wind, Sleepless, you cannot scatter Quince-bud, almond-bud, Little grape-hyacinth's Clustering brood, Nor unfurl the tips of the plum. No half born stalk of a lily stops; There is sap in the storm-torn bush; And, ruffled by gusts in a snow-blurred copse, "Pity to wait" sings a thrush. Love, there are few Springs left for us; They go, and the count of them as they go Makes surer the count that is left for us. More than the East wind, more than the snow, I would put back these hours that bring Buds and bees and are lost; I would hold the night and the frost, To save for us one more Spring. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ADAM WEIRAUCH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE; 1642 by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE TO ALFRED TENNYSON by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR CITY OF ORGIES by WALT WHITMAN THE SOLITUDE OF SPACE by FLORA CECILE ALLISON TRIOLET: THOSE VIOLETS BLUE by H. W. BANKS THE APOLOGY OF THE BISHOPS IN ANSWER TO BONNER'S GHOST by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |