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Title: Sonnet 85: To March
Author: Anna Seward [
More Titles by Seward]
MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray
May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne,
Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn,
And harshly hymn thy early-closing day.
Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn,
Her bleak, grey garb:--yet not for this we mourn,
Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway,
With festal viands, and Associates gay,
Arm 'gainst the Skies;--nor shun the piercing gale;
But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair,
Meet its rough breath;--and peep for primrose pale,
Or lurking violet, under hedges bare;
And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1] claim
The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.
[Footnote 1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.]
[The end]
Anna Seward's poem: Sonnet 85: To March
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