  Here where the sunlight makes more strangely fair Each shining street, each steeple where it stands, Something like Spring is blowing down the air, Touching the Town with light, transforming hands. Half-shy and hesitant, a Something stays One trembling instant where the sun is sweet,— A quickening presence on these winter ways, Haunting and swift—and gone on shining feet. Yet, there was hint of coming daffodils, And slender spears uprising on the lawn, And apple-blossoms on the April hills ... Only the timid prophetess was gone, Leaving a faith as gallant as the grass, How that these things would surely come to pass. |
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