Verses (Baughan)/February

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FEBRUARY

THE waters awake at last, and the tawny meads grow green;Clouds run over the sky, and the air is wild with glee.Who can doubt for a minute what all the stir may mean?The Thrush goes flying up to the top of the poplar-tree,With a “Spring! Spring! Spring!Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” sings he.
Brave little points of palm begin to twinkle and gleam;Frolicsome catkins volley gold-dust over the lea.Earth is busy forgetting her weariful winter dream, ​And loud and louder sings the Thrush, high up in the poplar-tree,With a “Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Spring! Spring! Spring!” carols he.
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