Robert Seymour Bridges

The Palm Willow

See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,
          The birds have stayed to sing;
No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.
            When cometh Spring?
Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unborn
            Are quenched each morn.

The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,
          Their yellow heads withhold:
The woodland willow stands a lonely bush
            Of nebulous gold;
There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attire
            Of frightened fire.