The roofs are wet with sweet, spring rain, The crocus-beds are purple-blue. The bowling-green looks very fresh, All newly washed by strong, March Showers. Its border sends forth slender shoots Of promise for the coming hours. But, 0 Great Chief, I cannot feel That radiant spring is here for me, Till round the green I watch you come In all your warlike panoply. Till up our terrace trim you steal Amid your shadowy host of braves, Spring is not here, though every bird Be trilling o'er its mating staves.