On the western sky, in a yellow line 



The wind of his might paints a warning sign. 



The March clouds, torn like shipwrecked sails, 



Drift at the will of the angry gales. 



On crumbling log the moss grows green ; 



The free'd brook laughs the rocks between ; 



The melting snow, the sap's full tide, 



The varnished buds that the young leaves hide ; 



These, and the flush on the Mayflower's cheek 

 To dullest ear Spring's message speak. 



