First of March
I.
Thro' the gaunt woods the winds are shrilling cold,
Down from the rifted rack the sunbeam pours
Over the cold gray slopes, and stony moors;
The glimmering watercourse, the eastern wold,
And over it the whirling sail o' the mill,
The lonely hamlet with its mossy spire,
The piled city smoking like a pyre,
Fetch'd out of shadow gleam with light as chill.
II.
The young leaves pine, their early promise stay'd;
The Hope-deluded sorrow at the sight
Of the sweet blossoms by the treacherous light
Flatter'd to death, like tender love betray'd;
And stepdames frown, and aged virgins chide;
Relentless hearts put on their iron mood;
The hunter's dog lies dreaming of the wood,
And dozes barking by the ingle-side.
III.
Larks twitter, martens glance, and curs from far
Rage down the wind, and straight are heard no more;
Old wives peep ont, and scold, and bang the door;
And clanging clocks grow angry in the air;
Sorrow and care, perplexity and pain
Frown darker shadows on the homeless one,
And the gray beggar buffeting alone
Pleads in the howling storm, and pleads in vain.
IV.
The field-fires smoke along the champaign drear,
And drive before the north wind streaming down
Bleak hill, and furrow dark, and fallow brown;
Few living things along the land appear;
The weary horse looks out, his mane astray,
With anxious fetlock, and uneasy eye,
And sees the market-carts go madly by
With sidelong drivers reckless of the way.
V.
The sere beech-leaves, that trembled dry and red
All the long Winter on the frosty bough,
Or slept in quiet underneath the snow,
Fly off, like resurrections of the dead;
The homy ploughman, and his yoked ox,
Wink at the icy blasts; and beldames bold,
Stout, and red-hooded, flee before the cold;
And children's eyes are blinded by the shocks.
VI.
You cannot hear the waters for the wind;
The brook that foams, and falls, and bubbles by,
Hath lost its voice — but ancient steeples sigh,
And belfries moan — and crazy ghosts, confined
In dark courts, weep, and shake the shuddering gates,
And cry from points of windy pinnacles,
Howl thro' the bars, and 'plain among the bells,
And shriek, and wail like voices of the Fates!
VII.
And who is He, that down the mountain-side,
Swift as a shadow flying from the sun,
Between the wings of stormy Winds doth run,
With fierce blue eyes, and eyebrows knit with pride;
Though now and then I see sweet laughters play
Upon his lips, like moments of bright heaven
Thrown 'twixt the cruel blasts of morn and even,
And golden locks beneath his hood of gray?
VIII.
Sometimes he turns him back to wave farewell
To his pale Sire with icy beard and hair;
Sometimes he sends before him thro' the air
A cry of welcome down a sunny dell;
And while the echoes are around him ringing,
Sudden the angry wind breathes low and sweet,
Young violets show their blue eyes at his feet,
And the wild lark is heard above him singing!
~~
Frederick Tennyson (1807-1898)
from Days and Hours, 1854
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Frederick Tennyson biography
Glyn Baker, Early Spring in Crowsheath Wood, March 2015.
