Spring held her fire
So long, the long pursuit, the watchers wondered
Would there be ever an end, would winter’s keel
Plough the grey lifeless land without a challenge,
Hated but all too strong, and the earth beaten
This year, and bud and blossom bound too fast?
But Spring, the tactician, came,
Certain of herself, silently closing in
On the confident foe. Now, surely, and now
Is the minute of destiny.
Strike, nor lose it! Still
Never a shot, and the minute passing. And now
Too late, perhaps, and the battle lost.
In hedge and tree and lane the explosive charge,
And with one broadside sank the enemy Winter
Under the green wave.