"Mid-March" by Lizette Woodworth Reese

Mid-March
by Lizette Woodworth Reese

It is too early for white boughs, too late 
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall 
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate. 
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, 
Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks 
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree 
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks 
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty, 
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows 
Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose. 

The days go out with shouting; nights are loud; 
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold; 
The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold, 
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.






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