MINSTREL WEATHER 



come out with the rest of the yawning 

 company. Fish glitter again in the hurry- 

 ing streams, building their nests and houses 

 like the others often obeying a spring 

 impulse to rush from lake to outlet or 

 from quiet water to streamhead, ending 

 their journey suddenly and forever amid 

 wire meshes. The brooks are icy on the 

 mildest days with melted snow from the 

 mountains, where hemlocks green as arctic 

 waters, shutting out the sun, keep a white 

 floor long after the valley wears grasses. 



Whoever has a touch of madness to 

 lend him sympathy with the March hare 

 likes the bewildering days through which 

 he scampers to vanish at the edge of April. 

 Rebellious, whitening ponds and wind-bent 

 trees; defiant buds and all the kindled 

 life of marsh, hill, and woodland, set free 

 once more from cold, but not from dread 

 hear at the coming of the mighty month 

 their promise of release. But only to 

 comrades who will run with him through 

 muddy lanes and tangled brush does he 

 show his treasures: forest creatures sped 

 like the couriers, petals lifted like the 

 banners, of life resurgent. 



[18] 



