Tis the noon of the spring-time,
Yet never a bird In the wind-shaked elm or the maple is heard;
For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow,
And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow;
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white;
On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light,
Oer the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots
The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots;
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps,
Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps,
Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers,
With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!
Submitted By: nick
In Category: April Fool
Added On: Monday, March 31, 2008