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Poems (Thaxter)/March

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For works with similar titles, see March.
4569446Poems — MarchCelia Thaxter
MARCH.
The keen north wind pipes loud;Swift scuds the flying cloud;Light lies the new fallen snow;The ice-clad eaves drip slow,For glad Spring has begun,And to the ardent sunThe earth, long time so bleak,Turns a frost-bitten cheek.Through the clear sky of March,Blue to the topmost arch,Swept by the New Year's gales,The crow, harsh-clamoring, sails.By the swift river's floodThe willow's golden bloodMounts to the highest spray,More vivid day by day;And fast the maples nowCrimson through every bough,And from the alder's crownSwing the long catkins brown. Gone is the Winter's painThough sorrow still remain,Though eyes with tears be wet,The voice of our regretWe hush, to hear the sweetFar fall of summer's feet.The Heavenly Father wiseLooks in the saddened eyesOf our unworthiness,Yet doth He cheer and bless.Doubt and Despair are dead;Hope dares to raise her head,And whispers of delightFill the earth day and night.The snow-drops by the doorLift upward, sweet and pure,Their delicate bells; and soon,In the calm blaze of noon,By lowly window-sillsWill laugh the daffodils!