| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Berkshires in April | | By Clement Wood |
| | | IT is not spring—not yet— | |
| But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birch | |
| Lifting a filmy red mantle of knotted buds | |
| Above the rain-washed whiteness of her arms. | |
| |
| It is not spring—not yet— | 5 |
| But by Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting, | |
| Thin, still, and fidgetty; | |
| Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathers | |
| That dawdles over the cidery autumn loam. | |
| |
| It is not spring—not yet— | 10 |
| But up the stocky Pownal hills | |
| Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness, | |
| Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows. | |
| |
| It is not spring—not yet— | |
| But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden, | 15 |
| Their tall tips flinging the sun’s rays back at him; | |
| And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crests | |
| The willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn, | |
| The high hill birches shine like purple plumes, | |
| A royal head-dress for the brow of spring. | 20 |
| It is the doubtful, unquiet end of winter, | |
| And spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil. | | | | |
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