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William Morris - March
Work rating: Medium

Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, thou that`s bring`st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle`s song,
Thou first redresser of the winter`s wrong!

Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the burden of the tune
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing: `Oh joy! a new year is begun:
What happiness to look upon the sun!`

Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss
But death himself, who crying solemnly,
E`en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids us `Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die,
Within a little time must ye go by.
Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live
Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give.`
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