To Lucy in London
by Robert L. Torry
Upheld in mountain towns we wait
as other, timely, towns below
accept consignment of the freight
that spring delivers when the snow
in every yard's account is spent.
While lower trees expand in green
fir trees are chaste, restrained. They mean
to save for weeks their warm assent.
You tell me London too is cold,
with winter after April old
as stone. Yet you yourself display
long winter's sense in this delay:
gray garden walls around disclose
the luminescence of the rose.