Month which the warring ancients strangely styled <br />The month of war,--as if in their fierce ways <br />Were any month of peace!--in thy rough days <br />I find no war in Nature, though the wild <br />Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled <br />As feet of writhing trees. The violets raise <br />Their heads without affright, without amaze, <br />And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child. <br />And he who watches well may well discern <br />Sweet expectation in each living thing. <br />Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn; <br />In secret joy makes ready for the spring; <br />And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear <br />Annunciation lilies for the year.<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-march/
