March: An Ode
I
Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of
winter had passed out of sight,
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that
fulfil us in sleep with delight;
The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and
branches that glittered and swayed
Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow or of frost that outlightens
all flowers till it fade
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than
the day, nor the day than the night,
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the
madness and might in thee made,
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that
enkindle the season they smite.
II
And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel and ravin and
spoil of the snow,
And the branches it brightened are broken, and shattered the tree-tops
that only thy wrath could lay low,
How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of the year that
exults to be born
So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whose laughter puts
winter and sorrow to scorn?
Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thy forehead
is molten: thy lips are aglow
As a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her raiment and
tresses yet wasted and torn,
Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel through her
spirit the sense of thee flow.
III
Fain, fain would we see but again for an hour what the wind and the sun
have dispelled and consumed,
Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with whose luminous burden
the branches implumed
Hung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and fledged not as birds are, but
petalled as flowers,
Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled and carved, or a fountain
that shines as it showers,
But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought not to last till by time or
by tempest entombed,
As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men: for the date of its doom is no
more than an hour's,
One hour of the sun's when the warm wind wakes him to wither the snow-
flowers that froze as they bloomed.
IV
As the sunshine quenches the snowshine; as April subdues thee, and
yields up his kingdom to May;
So time overcomes the regret that is born of delight as it passes in passion
away,
And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in or mourn for with tears or
thanksgivings; but thou,
Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and gladdest of months, to
what goal hast thou gone from us now?
For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter that lightens, the beat of
thy wings that play,
Must flame as a fire through the world, and the heavens that we know not
rejoice in thee: surely thy brow
Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit the joy that impelled it on
quest as for prey.
V
Are thy feet on the ways of the limitless waters, thy wings on the winds of
the waste north sea?
Are the fires of the false north dawn over heavens where summer is
stormful and strong like thee
Now bright in the sight of thine eyes? are the bastions of icebergs assailed
by the blast of thy breath?
Is it March with the wild north world when April is waning? the word that
the changed year saith,
Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion reiterate from spirits
triumphant as we
Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy clarions as men's rearisen
from a sleep that was death
And kindled to life that was one with the world's and with thine? hast thou
set not the whole world free?
VI
For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and freedom's the sense of thy spirit,
the sound of thy song,
Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is as high as the hands of thy
kingdom are strong,
Thy kingdom whose empire is terror and joy, twin-featured and fruitful of
births divine,
Days lit with the flame of the lamps of the flowers, and nights that are
drunken with dew for wine,
And sleep not for joy of the stars that deepen and quicken, a denser and
fierier throng,
And the world that thy breath bade whiten and tremble rejoices at heart as
they strengthen and shine,
And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed her, and knows of thy
reign that it wrought not wrong.
VII
Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in the crown of
the steep sky's arch,
And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness arise of the
thorn and the larch:
Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of the wildest of
winds that blow,
Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were laden with
blossom are sprinkled with snow,
And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the live woods feel
not the frost's flame parch;
For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is felt at the
heart of the forest aglow,
And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the hands of
the gods of the winds of March.
~~
A.C. Swinburne (1837-1909)from Poems and Ballads, Third series,
1889
[
Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
A.C. Swinburne biography
