Beyond my window in the night
   Is but a drab inglorious street, 
Yet there the frost and clean starlight
   As over Warwick woods are sweet.

Under the grey drift of the town
   The crocus works among the mould 
As eagerly as those that crown
   The Warwick spring in flame and gold.

And when the tramway down the hill
   Across the cobbles moans and rings, 
There is about my window-sill
   The tumult of a thousand wings.