Promise

Snow slowly turning dirty, and the first
Great joy of winter games long over, all
The fields lie waiting, frozen stiff, and thirst
For a reversal, but the east winds stall

The year's first yawns. All greenery would break,
Touched or blown over. In a cloudless sky
Anaemic sun's not strong enough to make
The smallest impact yet. Still, by and by

This bitter dreariness must end, to soak
The fields in melting snow before the rain
And in the garden windswept bulbs will poke
Their stubborn buds through slush and mud again.