You smile perhaps when I write “Spring” to you,
Who know so well my window but reveals
A space of factory walls, and smoke-soiled blue—
That square of sky above. But here one feels
April in March, and prescience of the May.
Spring’s not a matter just of birds or trees;
It’s something subtler, unheard, unseen—a way
Joy surges up in every face one sees.
Shut me from sky or light, I’m sure I’d know
The day that Spring first breathed across the snow,
Even as now I sense it everywhere
And find my window’s grimy picture fair.
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