Last Week of February, 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 show
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.
~~
Robert Bridges
from Shorter Poems, 1890
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Robert Bridges biography
In the text, L5 is written as: "Doth to his heiress shew". Although that better fits the archaic voice in the poem, I altered it for the sake of the rhyme.
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