** So bury me by some sweet garden side*** 



OMAR KHAYYAM. 



MARCH 



They come, the Lenten-lilies, flowers of March, 



At call of thrush, when first the blackbird's note 



Upon the ambient air afar doth float, 

 Ere yet the faintest green has graced the larch. 

 In dale they throng, these bright battalions, 



Opening their chalices as if to catch 



The Spring's pure wine, bright, burnished cups that match 

 The sunlight's gold ; trooping by millions. 

 Long ere the meads are pied with daisies white, 



Or calls the cuckoo over leagues of may, 



Thou bringest us and givest of thy gold. 

 Fading before the callow young take flight ; 

 Thy beauty gone before the first true day 



Of Spring doth dawn when love and life are told ! 



47 



