Spring explodes like a bomb in the North Countries:
masses of snow-masonry
crash; ice-panes are shattered;
arboreal machine-guns rattle a rapid round of buds;
and grass-bayonets perforate anachronisms with a wild accuracy.
The expectant ground is picketed with coltsfoot. Blåsippor,
using surprise tactics,
burst through precipitantly. Both are temporarily rebuffed
by late frosts and an east wind.
Straight from the mêlée,
and not without hazard,
I have brought these jottings, registered seismographically.
I want you to notice the handwriting.
No doubt it would be more intelligible if written up afterwards,
but custom is a shock-absorber.