Belmont Road

Spring hath attired herself for her last fete,
Last week she mourned in tears disconsolate,
Jonquilled and wonderful her yellow dress,
Fading to brown and crumpled nothingness.

Last week where fell those tears, in rapt amaze,
Breathlessly watch, Spring dances to the lays
With which the cuckoo woos her loveliness;
Golden with trembling sprays of broom her dress.

Deep by quiet-moving streams her glory goes,
Far on the windy hills it scented blows,
Cloudless and blue the wondering eyes of day
Smile on the drifting gold that marks her way.

—M.L.