MARCH.
HOW stern is March, with blasts that warm or chill;
Now like some peevish grandame, fuming, sputtering;
Now fierce to whirl the wandering dust-clouds wide;
Now bright with sunny gleams through discords muttering!
Yet spirits of leaves, that in bare boughs abide,
Mysterious happiness are mutely uttering,
And under many a streamlet's barren side
The violet's hidden hearts are softly fluttering!
—Wide Awake