Came unto the dreariness, Just watching the winds in their frosty descent. Oh slow return to life among the trees; Echoed the voices over the ravine, Mingling from thorn to thorn. The river shall stretch under the rude foothold, And the flame shall break over the cutting scythe of the dawn. And the soft-breathed petals awaken to the desire.

Still the frost of dawn, Shall come down and cling in the hand of the wave, And the cold light grip you, And reveal forgotten things. Here is an old dream of warm spring;

• Ezra Pound