A world of snow, and winter yet,
The weather-man decrees.
He listens to the bragging wind,
I hearken roots of trees.
It thawed of late, and roots lay out
Along the way I take;
I heard them deeply sigh, as does
A dreamer soon to wake.
And lo—upon my windowsill
Opens a yellow daffodil.
Gold-armored herald of the spring,
Come privately to tell
That snow is but the calyx warm,
The bud begins to swell.
So weather-man, go prophesy,
And credulous, go hear—
My herald gives your gloom the lie,
I know that Spring is near!
For lo—upon my windowsill
Opens a yellow daffodil.
