March, Tho' The Hours Of Promise With Bright Ray May Gild Thy Noons, Yet, On Wild Pinion Borne, Loud Winds More Often Rudely Wake Thy Morn, And Harshly Hymn Thy Early-Closing Day. Still The Chill'D Earth Wears, With Her Tresses Shorn, Her Bleak, Grey Garb: - Yet Not For This We Mourn, Nor, As In Winter'S More Enduring Sway, With Festal Viands, And Associates Gay, Arm 'Gainst The Skies; - Nor Shun The Piercing Gale; But, With Blue Cheeks, And With Disorder'D Hair, Meet Its Rough Breath; - And Peep For Primrose Pale, Or Lurking Violet, Under Hedges Bare; And, Thro' Long Evenings, From Our Lares[1] Claim The Thrift Of Stinted Grate, And Sullen Flame. 1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.