Classic Poem

Now Winter stealeth out like a white nun,
Cloaking her face behind her icy fingers,
And men each day look longer at the Sun,
While late and later yet the sweet light lingers

Fast by the hedgerows, bit by gales of March,
A chaplet for thy brows of delicate leaves —
Tendrils of briony, ruby tufts of larch,
Woodsorrel, crocus pale, the New Year weaves.

Yet is thy smile half wintry, as forlorn
To view thy state too solemn for thy years,
And half amazed as a flower's, late born,
And not more quick for pleasure than for tears.

Thy month austere telleth thy cloistral fashion:
March frost thy pride is, March wind thy pent passion.