Now are the days ere the crocus
Peeps in the Park,
Ere the first snowdrops invoke us,
Ere the brown lark
Hymns over headland and heather
Spring and her riot of weather,
Days when the East winds are moaning together,
Dreary and dark!
Still, just at times comes a hint of
Softness that brings,
Spite of the season, a glint of
April's own wings:
Violets hawked on the highway,
West winds a-whoop down a byway,
Silver clouds loose on the blue of their sky-way,
Such are the things!
Yes, though old Winter o'ertake us
Swiftly again,
These are the portents that make us
Pause by the pane--
Windows where weavers of tackle
Snare us with shows that unshackle
Dreams, as we gaze upon tinsel and hackle,
Greenheart and cane!
Visions of bud on the sallow,
Swards in gay gown,
Glimpses of pool and of shallow,
Streams brimming down;
Wail of the wandering plover,
Flute of the thrush in the cover,
Swirl of the pounder that breaks, turning over
At your March Brown!
Hark to the reel's sudden shrill of
Line that's ripped out,
Feel the rod thrill with the thrill of
Fate still in doubt,
Till, where the shingles are showing,
Yours are the rainbow tints glowing
Crimson and gold on a lusty and knowing
Devonshire trout!
Such are the fancies they throw us,
Sun and soft air,
Woven at windows that show us,
Lingering there,
Not the mere flies for our buying,
Not only rods for our trying,
But--if we've eyes for it--all the undying
Fun o' Spring Fair!
P. R. CHALMERS.
Feb. 9, 1910.