Lo, Winter’s grasp, though wan and worn, still lingers on the sodden ground,
Yet vernal whispers stir the air where Canada geese in flight resound.
Their echoes trace the breaking ice where rivers churn and thunders roar,
As thawing tides in silver veins reclaim the Seaway’s frozen shore.
The robin calls from boughs still bare, where yet no bud nor bloom is seen,
But nestled deep, the crocus wakes, and shoots of daffodils burn green.
The fickle frost retreats, returns, a vagrant ghost of bygone might,
While sunlight gilds the lengthening days and carves the shadowed tomb of night.
Oh, soon the earth shall don her gold, her emerald crown, her scented grace,
And we who watch with patient hearts shall bask within her warm embrace.
The St. Lawrence sings a waking hymn, the sap shall rise, the winds shall play,
And Spring, once but a whispered dream, shall claim her long-awaited stay.
(By John Shenton)