Poem by Anna Seward

Sonnet 85. March, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray

 TO MARCH.

March, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray
    May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne,
    Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn,
    And harshly hymn thy early-closing day.
Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn,
    Her bleak, grey garb:—yet not for this we mourn,
    Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway,
    With festal viands, and Associates gay,
Arm 'gainst the Skies;—nor shun the piercing gale;
    But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair,
    Meet its rough breath;—and peep for primrose pale,
Or lurking violet, under hedges bare;
    And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1] claim
    The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.

1: Lares, Hearth-Gods. 

1. Sonnet 78. Sophia tempts me to her social walls
2. Sonnet 89. Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
3. Sonnet 17. Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight
4. Sonnet 36. Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains
5. Sonnet 68. Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow

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