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 30. That song again!—its sounds my bosom thrill
2. Sonnet 28. O, Genius! does thy Sun-resembling beam
3. Sonnet 25. Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
4. Sonnet 84. While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds
5. Sonnet 52. Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene

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