Annus Quartus

Your words are imminent of Spring

At last. Deep in the frozen mind

Some precinct of the cortex slowly

Splits in the dark like a loosened rind.

None yet can nominate your cell, nor probe

The color of the lineal root;

Fast locked within your curious seed

The secret of your nation still is mute.

You will be lifting presently, you will

Uprear a stem into the blossoming hour;

But whether your tribe be fennel or be clover

Is nowise manifest before the flower.