The Doves

'Eheu, eheu,' doves follow to the close of March:
The white one blossoms, as on a Tree of Jesse,
Where the scaled mullions part the black-silk lights
On the tower lancet. Sun eases the winter skin,
Firing her reds and yellows under membranes
Traced out by birdsong passing sweet and high
Through all the churchyard trees. Boughs come adrift
Over the splayed sword-work of spring flowers,
...