MARCH.
MUD under foot, fogs over head,
Rain, drizzle, gloom, and mist;
Winter and spring are reconciled,
Have met again and kissed.
Uncertain, fickle, fierce, and false
A monster in his rage,
A hampered lion fain to break
The boundary of his cage.
Parent of winds and frantic storms,
Patron of sulky nights,
When all the sky is bloody red
With ghostly Northern Lights
Repenting, now and then, to show
Suns like the suns of June
And soft, cerulean, placid skies
Above a placid moon.
White snows, forgetful of the time,
Drifting adown the hills
And spanning ice bridging across
Emancipated rills;
Touches of fiercest polar cold,
Blasts from the Boreal shores
Sweeping with wild demoniac rage,
The dreary waste of moors.
Crushing with brutal hands the flowers
That yearn to spring to bloom,
Dooming all vegetating things
Unto a common tomb;
Nipping with frosty breath the life
Of sprout, and bud, and leaf
But little care we for his power,
The time of his reign is brief!
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