March

March , that with roar advances—to retreat
With most unleonine bleat;
March, that, discarding youthful thrift, grows old
Lavishing daffodil gold;—
When hath he sharp and bitter pangs extreme?
When, from her wintry dream,
He sees the Earth at some all-kindling kiss
Wake to demand wild bliss,
Foretaste of April and her treacheries sweet
That charm the hearts they cheat,
And of great hours beyond, when amorous May
For passionate June makes way.
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