To Bated Spring

 

Be languorous in your return, o spring,

For I’ve been nestled in the winter’s cuff

And crave the quiet of its slumberous muff

In which my core is uncontested king.

So far there are but slips of what you bring

In this pied March—no April outpours yet—

But when you burst, I would not feel regret

For subtler tunes my soul has still to sing.

I daily peer into the sphinxlike mask

Of greyness, trying to plumb its fuzzy play

And find within its riddlings a way

To answer questions I, like it, would ask.

Vagueness is pliable; let dimness be

The empty sketchpad of my inner search

Where I may scribble with no glaring smirch

The fundamentals that I sense, not see.

The whirling world of bloom will have its day

And I will come to love it when it comes,

Reveling in its filling-in, its hums—

But I would breathe the pause now, if I may.

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