The sun is warm and beckons to the larch...
A million buds but stay their blossoming;
And trustful birds have built their nests amid
The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing
Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,
And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring...."
- from While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry
by Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 - 1930)
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