OLD January, clad in crispy rime,
Comes limping on, and often makes a stand;
The hasty snow-storm ne’er disturbs his time,
He mends no pace, but beats his dithering hand.
And February, like a timid maid,
Smiling and sorrowing follows in his train;
Huddled in cloak, of miry roads afraid,
She hastens on to meet her home again.
Then March, the prophetess, by storms inspired,
Gazes in rapture on the troubled sky,
And now in headlong fury madly fired,
She bids the hail-storm boil and hurry by.
Yet ’neath the blackest cloud, a Sunbeam flings
Its cheering promise of returning Springs.