They have come with Spring, with the tender leaves
And the birds’ first cry in the upland wood;
They are born to April, to lean-sheared ewes,
To grass thawed brightly where the hillside weaves
The awl-shaped buds slow-breaking, and the breath
Of Spring hung frailly with the cold of death.
On crooked legs the lambs go up the hills
With early day, with light’s first pointed thrust
Where earth burns greenly with a luscious fire
And fog drains narrowly into splintered rills.
They are the first sure trumpets at Winter’s cease,
The first woolly blooms, the sky’s first fleece.