Spring Ecstasy

Oh, let me run and hide,
Let me run straight to God;
The weather is so mad with white
From sky down to the clod!

If but one thing were so,
Lilac, or thorn out there,
It would not be, indeed,
So hard to bear.

The weather has gone mad with white;
The cloud, the highway touch;
White lilac is enough;
White thorn too much!