Classic Poem

The wind is Winter, though the sun be Spring:
The icy rills have scarce begun to flow;
The birds unconfidently fly and sing.

As on the land once fell the northern foe,
The hostile mountains from the passes fling
Their vandal blasts upon the lake below.

Not yet the round clouds of the Maytime cling
Above the world's blue wonder's curving show,
And tempt to linger with their lingering.

Yet doth each slope a vernal promise know:
See, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing,
A snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Love, need we more than our imagining
To make the whole year May? What though
The wind be Winter if the heart be Spring?