by May Sarton
The strangely radiant skies have come
To lift us out of winter’s gloom,
A paler more transparent blue,
A softer gold light on fresh snow.
It is a naked time that bares
Our lightly worn-down hopes and cares,
And sets us listening for frogs,
And sends us to seed catalogues
To bury our starved eyes and noses
In an extravagance of roses,
And order madly at this season
When we have had enough of reason.