Spring

This is the time of the year
When the mint and thyme are waking
With the warmth of the sun. The yew trees stretch their long, thin arms
In the delicate air of spring,
With a white mist drawn across the land
Like a dream gone cold.

I stand looking at the grass
And thinking of getting home,
What dark figures are needed inside
The house that it might stand
Against the storm of this wind
And the bitter salt of the sea?

• Amy Lowell