WAYS OF THE MARCH HARE 



December comes. The lilacs are growing 

 impatient, for already the sophisticated 

 city lilac bush is wearing costly bloom, 

 careless that a debut made so early early 

 ends. The crocuses, spring's opening ballet, 

 dressed in pastel tints, take their places 

 on the lawn, standing delicately erect, 

 waiting for bird music. Unknown to 

 March's gales, the still swamp pools are 

 fringed with shooting green, full of hints 

 of cowslips; and arbutus few know on 

 what hillsides is lifting the warm leaf 

 blanket, trusting that vandal admirers are 

 far away. The March violet is sung more 

 than seen, visiting Northern slopes and 

 woods hollows only by caprice, but all the 

 legends lingering over it, and the magic 

 beauty it gives to maidens who gather it 

 at dawn, make the violet still, for lyrical 

 needs, the flower of March. Cuddled close 

 to sun-warmed stones, cloaked by quaint 

 leaves lined with sapphire and maroon, 

 sometimes now the hepatica has come; and 

 bloodroot nested under bowlders, and in 

 fence corners where the sun is faithful, lifts 

 praying, exquisite petals that open swiftly 

 from the slim bud and are scattered by a 

 touch. The dark blue grape hyacinth 



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