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BERKSHIRES IN APRIL

It is not Spring—not yet—But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birchLifting a filmy red mantle of knotted budsAbove the rain-washed whiteness of her arms.
It is not Spring—not yet—But by Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting,Thin, still, and fidgety,Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathersThat dawdles over the cidery Autumn loam.
It is not Spring—not yet—But up the stocky Pownal hillsSome springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness,Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows.
It is not Spring—not yet—But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden,Their tall tips flinging the sun's rays back at him;And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crestsThe willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn,

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