Here you will find the Poem A Song Of A Spring-Time of poet Augusta Davies Webster
TOO rash, sweet birds, spring is not spring; Sharp winds are fell in east and north; Late blossoms die for peeping forth; Rains numb, frost blights; Days are unsunned, storms tear the nights; The tree-buds wilt before they swell. Frosts in the buds, and frost-winds fell: And you, you sing. But let no song be sweet in spring; Spring is but hope for after-time, And what is hope but spring-tide rime? But blights, but rain? Spring wanes unsunned, and sunless wane The hopes false spring-tide bore to die. Spring's answer is the March wind's sigh: And you, you sing.
