On a bitter day of hail and wind, the speaker’s temples ache, and primroses lie torn under ice. Briefly, the sun breaks through with a gentle, almost warm light, but the cold returns with sunset, piling the west with mountains of snow. He knows spring will come again, yet it feels buried in that chill.
Then the thrushes, silenced all day by rain and sleet, find an hour to sing before the moon outshines the clouds. They sing with fierce urgency — on branches, gates, anywhere — packing in every note, whether hoarse or sweet, as if to fight off silence and night. To the speaker, all of it is sweet. He senses they know something vital, and he shares that knowledge while they sing. Later, under a clearing sky half full of stars, the silence after their song feels different: it holds the same message — spring returns, perhaps tomorrow.