Poems (Trask)/March

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

For works with similar titles, see March.

MARCH.

Mud underfoot, fogs overhead,
 Rain, drizzle, gloom, and mist,
Winter and Spring are reconciled,
 Have met again and kissed.
Uncertain, fickle, fierce, and false,
 A monster in his rage
Is March, a lion wild to break
 The boundary of his cage.

Parent of winds and frantic storms,
 Patron of sulky nights,
When all the sky is bloody red
 With dancing Northern Lights;
Repenting now and then, to show
 Suns like the suns of June,
And soft, cerulean, placid skies
 Above a placid moon.

White snows, forgetful of the time,
 Drifting across the hills,
And spurious ice bridging across
 Emancipated rills;
Touches of fiercest polar cold,
 Blasts from boreal shores,
Sweeping with fiendish rage and spite
 The dreary waste of moors,

Crushing with brutal cold the flowers
 That fain would burst to bloom,
Dooming all vegetating things
 Unto a common tomb,
Nipping with frosty breath the life
 Of bud, and sprout, and leaf;
But little care we for his power,
 Knowing his reign is brief.