On Spring’s Approach
A
Petrarchian Sonnet in Season
Oh,
the treachery of winter’s last days,
as it
seems the frost might at length relent
before southerly breezes heaven-sent—
the
which, however, only produce haze.
Such
gentle respite is a passing phase,
an
interlude not seriously meant
to
give great cheer—it has no such intent.
Soon
hoar and rime return with icy glaze.
Yet,
as we brace for the last blast and cope
with
slush and sleet, our full measure of grace
is
fast poured out, and gladly we’d embrace
the
vernal equinox—come, interlope,
and
send the old man packing with quick pace;
come
fill us once more with eternal hope.
