"The End of April" by Robert Henry Forster
The season falters: our desires outrun
Its progress. Winter, though it yield to spring,
Like a dead wasp hath venom in its sting,
And freezes yet, with April almost done.
May is but two days distant, and the sun
Is still a laggard: March is loitering
That should a month ago have taken wing,
And April ends with spring but half begun.
But we are too impatient, and desire
Swift magic: Nature's sorcery is slow.
Unless the plant is noticeably higher
Than yesterday, we think it fails to grow.
More faith, more hope, more patience we require,
If we would earn what Nature can bestow.