Hail, Lady Moon, first glimpsed through foggy veil,
and radiant in rainment of new snow:
Declare to us what elms already know,
that if spring comes now, it must surely fail.
Forsythia buds still seem small and pale,
and though Sun presents a cheerier glow,
black ice still impedes the little brook’s flow;
twilight still renews both hoarfrost and gale.
Yet who can doubt that change begins again?
The roof of the barn turns black with black birds,
grackles resting from wings of migration.
Flusters of feathers cloak pheasants in glen,
and shillouette geese in their wedge-shaped herds,
honking out their ardent admiration.
