VII

Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in the
crown of the steep sky's arch,
And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness arise
of the thorn and the larch:
Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of the
wildest of winds that blow,
Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were laden
with blossom are sprinkled with snow,
And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the live
woods feel not the frost's flame parch;
For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is felt
at the heart of the forest aglow,
And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the hands
of the gods of the winds of March.