Not quite spring yet, no, and yet,
Our memory does not forget.
As the ice and snow recede,
We know they yield to earth and seed.
Yet the frost lingers,
Nipping our fingers.
A myth it is, a kind one though:
That mortal kind should love the snow.
Yet nature now is naught but cruel;
Delights in luring from our yule
The foolish young,
To steal songs unsung.
Though early on this halcyon morn
On March’s edge, was fancy born
Of spring’s return, the drifts’ return
Returns us to our homes to yearn,
Leaving hope hinter
At the end of winter.