So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the year: be calm and mild,
Trembling hours; she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

January gray is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier-

March, with grief, doth howl and rave;

And April weeps-but, O ye hours!

Follow with May's fairest flowers.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792-1822.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM

ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY.

Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem,
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month
Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed on thee
With blue, voluptuous eye); alas, poor flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year,
Perchance escaped its unknown polar cave.
E'en now the keen north-east is on its way,
Flower thou must perish! Shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth?

SAMUEL T. COLeridge, 1770-1849.

FEBRUARY.

Dip down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new year, delaying long,
Thou dost expectant nature wrong,
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer noons?

Bring orchis-bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums dropping wells of fire.

O thou new year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat of song.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

MARCH.

The stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee!
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again

The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentler train, And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And in thy reign of blast and storm

Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills,

And the full springs, from frost set free,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But in thy sternest form abides

A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

W. C. BRYANT.

APRIL.

All day the low hung clouds have dropped
Their garnered fullness down;

All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped
Hill, valley, grove, and town.

There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature;
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life or living creature;

Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing-

I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.

For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,

These honeysuckle buds

Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs;

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,

The milk-white flowers revealing;

Even now upon my senses first,

Methinks their sweets are stealing

The very earth, the steaming air,
Is all with fragrance rife;

And grace and beauty everywhere
Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come-those fruitful stores!

Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops.

And ere the dimples on the stream,
Have circled out of sight,
Lo! from the west a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber light.