Vernal Equinox.
Daughters in the wind's boisterous roughing,
pray that tickle's equal to the coat tearing.
And the wearing equal to the puffing.
As you match breath and tugging after the winter in the thaw
and the first heat of the sun's splendor.
In your first ramble, daughters, with your laughing
loosed from the freeze when the grass is seeping,
save your dimpled knees in the head strong leaping.
And under his cloak if you run with the north wind,
when there is the smell of hibernation in him
and the black, half-frozen waters of a dam,
watch for his cruelty.
He traps the lamb.
Daughters under the birches in the green weeping,
in the rain and lightning of the west wind's keeping.
Daughters, does, with tawny flank, shy stamping.
Nibble his water quick land with your hoofs tamping.
And dance.
Do not rest or he'll have you sleeping.
And daughters whose hearts are going higher, higher
with your wild hair blowing into his high riding giant's bellows,
observe the tremble of the weeping willows.