Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/35

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THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.
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Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyesFirst opened on the earth, to make thy hauntsFairer and gladder for thy kindly looks. Thus might a poet say; but I must bringA birthday offering of an humbler strain,And yet it may not please thee less. I holdThat 'twas the fitting season for thy birthWhen March, just ready to depart, beginsTo soften into April. Then we haveThe delicatest and most welcome flowers,And yet they take least heed of bitter windAnd lowering sky. The periwinkle then,In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure bloomsBeside the cottage door; within the woodsTufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneathThe leaves of the last summer, send their sweetsUp to the chilly air; and, by the oak,The squirrel-cups, a graceful company,Hide in their bells a soft aërial blue—Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks,
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