The poets never lied when they praised Spring in England. Even in this neat suburb You can feel there’s something to their pastorals. Something gentle, broadly nostalgic, is stirring On the well-aired pavements. Indrawn brick Sighs, and you notice the sudden sharpness Of things growing. The sun lightens The significance of what the houses Are steeped in, brightens out Their winter brooding. Early May Touches also the cold diasporas That England hardly mentions.