Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies, And the meanest life is sacred whence the highest may arise. RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON. FEBRUARY. OON-and the north-west sweeps the empty road, The rain-washed fields from hedge to hedge are bare; Beneath the leafless elms some hind's abode Looks small and void, and no smoke meets the air Shall it not hap that on some dawn of May Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth yet, The useless hope, the useless craving pain, Through changeless change of seasons passing by? WILLIAM MORRIS. MARCH. LAYER of the winter, art thou here again? Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June, That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." WILLIAM MORRIS. |