Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white,
Disjointed, crumbling, on unfriendly fields.
The inky pools surrender tardily
At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink
From jagged rims of ice; a subtle red
Of life is kindling every twig and stalk
Of lowly meadow growths; the willows wrap
Their stems in furry white; the pines grow gray
A little in the biting wind; mid-day
Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out
Alert for sun.
Ah, March! we know thou art
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
— Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)