Classic Poem

Frail larch-shadows glimmer liquidly,
Edged with the tremor of bewildered rain;
The pines are stenciled lank and vaporously
In oscillating mist; roots writhe and strain
To one more cool wet grasp of earth: O Spring,
In hollows where the furtive water hums
A vehemence of rich remembering
Unfurl the flags of April! Beat your drums!

In every corner of the woods and valleys
Flutters the little talk of violets;
Gust after gust leaps out, flaps loose, then rallies;
The reed tastes fire; the white dove tenderly frets;
I walk over brinks of beauty, shivering:
Unfurl your flags and beat your drums, O Spring!