A Sunrise in March
While on my cheek the sour and savage windConfuses soul with sense, while unamazedI view the siege of pale-starred horror raisedBy dawn whose waves charge stern and crimson-lined,In cold blue tufts of battle-smoke afar,And sable crouching thickets by my way—While I thus droop, the living land grows gayWith starry welcomes to the conquering star!
From every look-out whence they watch him win(That angry Cromwell!) high on thorn and bineThe selfless wildbirds hail their holy light:With changes free as flute or violin,To naked fields they peal as proud and fineAs though they had not dreamed of death all night.
