Yes, I know that technically spring’s been here for quite a while. But northern climes don’t get to see it so quickly.
In 1913, about a hundred years ago, Robert Frost wrote about the transition of the seasons in one of his earlier poems. It still has some archaic language of the type he jettisoned not long after (“whate’er”; “o’er”). But it’s so beautiful:
TO THE THAWING WIND
Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
Here’s a Frostian companion piece (1915), for the coming of late autumn and its segue into winter:
NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
But let’s not worry about that now. It’s April!