From Juniper, Gentian, and Rosemary by Pamela Dean

On the Snow in April

It's enough to make one turn to pagan rites,
Burn incense with sly purpose, promise anything,
To bring to these obediently shortening nights
Some herald of the obstinate spring.
Dear Heaven, has not it been cold long enough?
Remember that the regular is beautiful.
Things stretched past their due time are not the stuff
Of loveliness, and all chaos is dull.
What shivering sad time is this for Easter?
There are not even natural miracles.
Is it that through this gaunt delay there pulls
The gleeful string of that essential jester?
They say, let spring bring Christ to mind; this year,
Christ must persuade there will be violets here.

Yesterday's, actually, but I liked it enough to want to remember it, and to share it.

Louis MacNeice - Snow

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes —
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands —
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.