

•^^g^^^s^' 



MARCH 



' — neath the ruin of the withered brake 

 Primroses now awake 



From nursing shades : 

 The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown 

 Avails not to keep down 

 The hyacinth blades. 



The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed ; 

 The willow's flossy tuft 



Hath slipped him free : 

 The rose amid her ransacked orange hips 

 Braggeth the tender tips 

 Of bowers to be. 



A black rook stirs the branches here and there, 

 Foraging to repair 



His broken home : 

 And hark, on the ash boughs ! Never thrush did sing 

 Louder in praise of spring, 

 When spring is come.' 



Robert Bridges. 



'Leaf -woven homes, where twitter-words 

 Will grow to songs and eggs to birds ; 

 Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers 

 And April smile to sunny hours. 

 Bright days shall be and gentle nights 

 Full of soft breath and echo-lights, 

 As if the God of sun-time kept 

 His eyes half-open while he slept. 

 Roses shall be where roses were, 

 Not shadows but reality ; 

 As if they never perished there 

 But slept in immortality. 



Tom Hood, Spring Premise. 



