To-day is January still,
Yet, fugitive and half-divined,
There comes a scent of daffodil
And violet on the winter wind.
There's redness in the willow tops,
Soft purple on the hedgerows bare,
And through the dead leaves in the copse
Young grass is spearing everywhere.
The briar has new leaves of green,
Bravely the gorse blooms on the hill--
To-day the spring is felt and seen,
Though it is January still.