As though, when fields lie stricken
⁠By grey December's breath,
These lordlier growths that sicken
⁠And die for fear of death
Should feel the sense requicken
⁠That hears what springtide saith
And thrills for love, spring-stricken
⁠And pierced with April's breath.

The keen white-winged north-easter
⁠That stings and spurs thy sea
Doth yet but feed and feast her
⁠With glowing sense of glee:
Calm chained her, storm released her,
⁠And storm's glad voice was he:
South-wester or north-easter,
⁠Thy winds rejoice the sea.