Mole Poem by John Scully

Till meadows weep with pollen drops,
And flowers turn to fruit
The ghosts of winter glimmer still
Among the frosty village frocks.
And when the brown thrush comes with throaty song,
Touching barren hedgerows with his wing,
The west-wind hovers or'e my door
And wakes me with a roar.
Till then and only then
Will I desert my dark and cosy home
And blinking search, with sorrows heart
The hardened fields above.
For Spring is at my door,
And I must with outward-steel
Avoid the winter snares,
For dangers hurry to deceive
Small creatures still in winter's snowy sleeve.