'Tis March; and on the hills that stretch away In misty furrows on the growing night The peasants keep their old Etruscan rite, And wave strange fires, like will-o'-wisps at play; Chanting an incantation that shall lay The spirits that bring drought and hail and blight, And keeping with the sheaves of straw they light In the green wheat all demon spite at bay. Ah me! this spring we have no seed to shield From life's dark possibilities of ill; Nor look we on the hills where wave the fires; Nor, heopefully as the tillers of the field, Repeat the words of magic that they still Intone in March, as did their antique sires. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MANOKWARI, IRIAN JAYA; IN MEMORIAM, ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE by KAREN SWENSON ANGLOSAXON STREET by EARL (EARLE) BIRNEY SOLACE by CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND [SEPTEMBER 17, 1862] by GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP JOY OF THE MORNING by EDWIN MARKHAM |