March

Month which the warring ancients strangely styled

The month of war,— as if in their fierce ways

Were any month of peace!— in thy rough days

I find no war in Nature, though the wild

Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled

At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise

Their heads without affright, without amaze,

And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.

And he who watches well may well discern

Sweet expectation in each living thing.

Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn;

In secret joy makes ready for the spring;

And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear

Annunciation lilies for the year.