If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood; Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, This is Spring.
Christopher Pearse CranchWe are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen.
Christopher Pearse Cranch