Last week of Febraury, 1890 

Hark to the merry birds, hark how they sing ! 
Although 'tis not yet spring 
And keen the air; 
Hale Winter, half resigning ere he go, 
Doth to his heiress shew 
His kingdom fair. 

In patient russet is his forest spread, 
All bright with bramble red, 
With beechen moss 
And holly sheen: the oak silver and stark 
Sunneth his aged bark 
And wrinkled boss. 

But neath the ruin of the withered brake 
Primroses now awake 
From nursing shades: 
The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown 
Avails not to keep down 
The hyacinth blades. 

The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed ; 
The willow's flossy tuft 
Hath slipped him free: 
The rose amid her ransacked orange hips 
Braggeth the tender tips 
Of bowers to be. 

A black rook stirs the branches here and there, 
Foraging to repair 
His broken home : 
And hark, on the ash boughs ! Never thrush did sing 
Louder in praise of spring, 
When spring is come.