Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; <br />And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; <br />No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, <br />And willow stems grow daily red and bright. <br />These are days when ancients held a rite <br />Of expiation for the old year's ill, <br />And prayer to purify the new year's will: <br />Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, <br />Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, <br />And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed <br />The ardent summer's joy to have and taste; <br />Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed, <br />To recon clear the new life's sterner need; <br />Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-february/
