William Dean Howells.

1837-1920

817   Earliest Spring

TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and
   tangles,
Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous
   breath,
Through all the moaning chimneys, and ’thwart all the
  hollows and angles                                  [death.
Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow
  Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,
  Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.

Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or
  desire                                                      [goes—
  (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect—as if in the brier,
  Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.