  How shall we open the door of Spring That Winter is holding wearily shut? Though winds are calling and waters brawling, And snow decaying and light delaying, Yet will it not move in its yielding rut And back on its flowery hinges swing, Till wings are flapping And woodpeckers tapping With sharp, clear rapping At the door of Spring. How shall we fasten the door of Spring Wide, so wide that it cannot close? Though buds are filling and frogs are trilling, And violets breaking and grass awaking, Yet doubtfully back and forth it blows Till come the birds, and the woodlands ring With sharp beak stammer— The sudden clamor Of the woodpecker’s hammer At the door of Spring. —Ethelwyn Wetherald. From “The Last Robin,” by permission. I live for those who love me, For those who know me true, For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit, too; For the cause that needs assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance; For the future in the distance, For the good that I can do. |
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