Hark to the avalanche snow from the roofs
O’er eaves where the icicles melt in the sun!
Hark to the musical suck of the hoofs
By the road where the ditches are ready to run!
On the slope of the hill is a patchwork of green
And the fallows are spotted with spaces of brown,
While woodlands and copses and hedges between
Have lost the white burden that weighted them down.