In a February Garden

One rose till after snowtime O'erlooked the sodden grass; Now crocuses are twenty With spear and torch a plenty, To keep our Candlemas. So thin that winter greyness, So light that sleep forlorn, No seventh week uncloses Between the martyr roses And crocus newly born. All doubt is hushed for ever, Confuted without sound, All ruin featly ended, When bulbs begin their splendid Gay muster overground; And mid the golden heralds That ride the icy breeze, Man, too, divinely vernal, Storms into life eternal Victoriously with these. O Beauty, O Persistence Ineffable and strong! Would we had borne with Sorrow In her unlasting morrow: And Death was not for long.