O happy February! in which man has least to bear — least pain, least sorrow, least self-reproach! — Diary of Immanuel Kant .
I

Twelve gems, the girdle of the year. . . .
And every year
A name of joy or grief and fear;
Sometimes a creature sweet and soft,
A cruel demon very oft:
Seventy was wild with battle-thunder —
But what of Seventy-one, men wonder,
A maiden year?

II

Twelve gems. Ah, what, on mere and pond,
Can shine beyond.
December's icy diamond?
And lo the ruby red of June
With full-flushed rose and song-bird's tune!
April beholds the opal vary.
Dim amethyst to February
May well respond.

III

A happy month. Immanuel Kant,
Hierophant
Of the philosophy dominant,
Because its days are twenty-eight,
Welcomes it from the hand of Fate:
Least it contains of loves that languish,
Of dulness, agony, and anguish,
Swindling and cant.

IV

Metaphysician! I defy
This dreary dry
Month-preference; and I tell you why.
No stretch of time can be too long
For life's gay laugh and love's sweet song:
Add to each merry month a quarter. . . .
My love will only deem it shorter,
And so shall I.