Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;

And reigns the winter’s pregnant silence still;

No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,

And willow stems grow daily red and bright.

These are the days when ancients held a rite

Of expiation for the old year’s ill,

And prayer to purify the new year’s will;

Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight,

Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste,

And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed

The ardent summer’s joy to have and taste;

Fit days, to give to last year’s losses heed,

To reckon clear the new life’s sterner need;

Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!

—Helen Hunt Jackson.