The Month Of March Poem by Thomas Odiorne

How pleasant is this place! E'en in this month
Of winds I love my home. The sky is cold
And clear. Behind the house the north wind raves;
In front, the sun emits his slanting beams.
Without a trough the melted snows to guide,
The roof lets fall a thousand pattering drops.
Passing we dodge. At yester-noon fell thick
A flaky shower, and mantled o'er the face
Of Nature that had smil'd. Earth, like a bride,
Frigid as chastity, flaunts in white robes;
But, having the dissolving touch of spring
Felt, she will soon his mild embrace enjoy.
Beneath her snowy vestments, ruthless frost
No longer binds the life-sustaining glebe,
Intent to burst its vegetative powers.
To guard the fruit trees from the nibbling flocks,
The heedful husbandman his fence repairs,
And timely prunes his thrifty orchard. Earth,
Of quick-dissolving snows, now drinks her fill.
Man's ardent bosom, now elate with hopes
Of seed-time, gathers sympathetic life
And vigour. Vegetation works unseen.
The sun grows vertical; less fierce the winds.
Aries holds light and darkness equipois'd.
In yonder mead, along the hillock's base,
From northern blasts defended, or beside
Some tepid spring e'en now my fancy paints
The vivid green grass. From the dripping bogs
Fleecy white vapours rise; and, freed from ice,
The limpid rill, rejoicing in its course,
Meand'ring, sweetly gurgles as it falls.
The fascinating verdure of the fields,
The gentle rustling of the trees, new-leav'd,
The jocund warblings of the birds are near.
Invigorated by that mystic power,
Which, from the seed and root propels the blade,
And ear, and grain, all nature soon will smile.
So by that wonder-working power inspir'd,
Man shall arise again, and live renew'd.