Rowan and Oak

Winter-worn but bade I spoke
Of coming Spring, of rowan and oak.
And lowley, sweetly sang with mirth,
The fires lit neath waking earth.

For what cause do men suffer,
Put to task against his druther.
Against encroaching mounds of snow,
And against the tempests laying low.

But put to rest are thoughts of peril,
Green once more, not barren and sterile.
And songs I cast to the winds e'er free,
Again mimick the swallow's soliloquy.

Rivers run, giving proof,
By brook-babble and muddy hoof.
Winter-worn, but bade it spoke,
Of coming Spring, of rowan and oak.