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Poem by Anna Seward

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


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. 

Anna Seward

Anna Seward's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
  2. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride
  3. Sonnet 87. Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine
  4. Sonnet 56. What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes
  5. Sonnet 28. O, Genius! does thy Sun-resembling beam

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