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Poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese


Mid-March


It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon twill leap up and show the world a rose.

The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moons a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud. 



Lizette Woodworth Reese


Lizette Woodworth Reese's other poems:
  1. The Deserted House
  2. A Song for Candlemas
  3. Herbs
  4. Writ in a Book of Welsh Verse
  5. Oh, gray and tender is the rain


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