Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The First of March

The First of March.

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,And earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood,Which, warmed by summer suns in the alembic of the vine,From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine.

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower,Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower,And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits,Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned dayIs commissioned to remark whether winter holds her sway;Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing;Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for spring.

Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams are all of flowers,And the waters look in mirth from their overhanging bowers;The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves,And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.

The vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave;And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing,Have started from their sleep at the summons of the spring.

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills;And if this cloudless arch fill the poet's song with glee,0 thou sunny first of March be it dedicate to thee.