The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown. And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early buttercups unfold A glittering star or two--till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. And then a little rabbit bolts up behind And then another, sheltered from the wind.