VI.

MARCH.

We like March, his shoes are purple, He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder's tongue his coming, And begets her spot. Stands the sun so close and mighty That our minds are hot. News is he of all the others; Bold it were to die With the blue-birds buccaneering On his British sky.

DAWN.

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door; Or has it feathers like a bird, Or billows like a shore?