Candlemas

THE hedge-rows cast a shallow shade Upon the frozen grass,
But skies at evensong are soft,
And comes the Candlemas.

Each day a little later now Lingers the westering sun ;
Far out of sight the miracles Of April are begun.

O barren bough ! O frozen field !
Hopeless ye wait no more.
Life keeps her dearest promises —
The Spring is at the door!