Explore "A Backward Spring" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE trees are afraid to put forth buds, / And there is timidity in the grass; / The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds, / And whether next week will pass / Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush / Of barberry waiting to bloom.
Yet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom, / And the primrose pants in its heedless push, / Though the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight / This year with frost and rime / To venture one more time / On delicate leaves and buttons of white / From the selfsame bough as at last year's prime, / And never to ruminate on or remember / What happened to it in mid-December.