THIS morning at the door
I heard the Spring.
Quickly I set it wide
And, welcoming,
“Come in, sweet Spring,” I cried,
“The winter ash, long dried,
Waits but your breath to rise
On phantom wing.”
A brown leaf shivered by,
A soulless thing —
My heart in quick dismay
Forgot to sing —
Twisted and grim it lay,
Kin to the ghost-ash gray,
Dead, dead — strange herald this
Of jocund Spring!
I spurned it from the door.
I longed that Spring
Should come with song and glow
And rush of wing,
Not this, not this!— But O
Dead leaf, a year ago
You were the dear first-born
Of Hope and Spring!