Tis the noon of the spring-time, Yet never a bird In the wind-shaked elm or the maple is heard; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow; Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white; The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots; And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!