| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922. |
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| Berkshires in April |
| | | Clement Wood (1888–1950) |
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| IT is not Spring—not yet— | |
| But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birch | |
| Lifting a filmy red mantle of knotted buds | |
| Above the rain-washed whiteness of her arms. | |
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| It is not Spring—not yet— | 5 |
| But at Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting, | |
| Thin, still, and fidgety, | |
| Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathers | |
| That dawdles over the cidery Autumn loam. | |
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| It is not Spring—not yet— | 10 |
| But up the stocky Pownal hills | |
| Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness, | |
| Climbs, flaming, over the melting snows. | |
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| It is not Spring—not yet— | |
| But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden, | 15 |
| Their tall tips flinging the sun’s rays back at him; | |
| And as the sun drags over the Berkshire crests, | |
| The willows glow, the scarlet bushes burn, | |
| The high hill birches shine like purple plumes, | |
| A royal headdress for the brow of Spring. | 20 |
| It is the doubtful, unquiet end of Winter, | |
| And Spring is pulsing out of the wakening soil. | |
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