MARCH

The earth is steaming, drenched in sweat;
Ravines run dazed and turbulent.
Like a bustling milkmaid hard at work,
Spring labors long, is well content.


The scanty snows now sick and helpless
Lie prone, with branching bluish veins.
The tines of pitchforks glow with health,
Freed from their winter rust and stains.

O nights, O passing days and nights!
The drip from eaves and window sills,
The thinning icicles on gables,
The chatter of unsleeping rills!

The pigeons peck at oats in snow
About the sheds and stables flung
Wide open, and vaster than spring air
The smell of life-begetting dung.