Winter at length slow-waning to its close,
Nature declares her penance well-nigh done;
And sends, in challenge to the laggard sun,
Fair, truant days, balmy and soft as those
May scatters: then mock-penitent she grows,
Owns the sad cheat,—and jubilant, like one
Who knows no master, apes, for very fun,
Her old-time rigors, piling deep her snows
As in midwinter. Ah, a wayward thing
Is Nature! Something of her April mood
Disturbs—nay, warms and quickens all her blood;
And whether summer, winter, autumn, spring,
Holds her in leash, she breaks away at will,—
Supreme for all her bonds, and regnant still!