But these things also are Spring's -On banks by the roadside the
Long-dead that is greyer
Than all the Winter it was;
The shell of a little snail
In the grass; chip of flint, and
Of chalk; and the small birds'
In splashes of purest white:
All the white things a man
For earliest
Who seeks through Winter's
Something to pay Winter's debts,
While the North blows, and starling
By chattering on and
Keep their spirits up in the mist,
And Spring's here,
Winter's not gone.
