FEBRUARY. OON-and the north-west sweeps the empty The rain-washed fields from hedge to hedge are bare; Beneath the leafless elms some hind's abode Looks small and void, and no smoke meets the air Shall it not hap that on some dawn of May Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth yet, Through changeless change of seasons passing by? WILLIAM MORRIS. MARCH. LAYER of the winter, art thou here again? Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June, That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live WILLIAM MORRIS. MARCH LAYER of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! |