Transcension

Amid the wind and sleet of March,
I said that Spring would never come,
Shivering, peevish, o'er the fire
Within my cosy book-lined room.
Across my window stretched a branch,
Ice-hung and gauntly bare,
When lo, there came a bubbling trill,
A gleam of russet there!
And as the redbreast on the bough
Sang, gaily swaying to and fro,
The "winter of my discontent"
Dissolved into a sudden glow;
The sun came out,
I looked and smiled
To spy a crocus mid the snow.

^__Louisa Cooke Don-Carlos