A Calendar of Sonnets: March
Month which the warring ancients strangely styledThe month of war,--as if in their fierce waysWere any month of peace!--in thy rough daysI find no war in Nature, though the wildWinds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piledAs feet of writhing trees. The violets raiseTheir heads without affright, without amaze,And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.And he who watches well may well discernSweet 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 bearAnnunciation lilies for the year.
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