Sonnet LXXXV. To March.

A poem by Anna 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.

1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.