FEBRUARY.
Dip down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new year, delaying long,
Thou dost expectant nature wrong,
Delaying long, delay no more.
What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer noons?
Bring orchis—bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell’s darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums dropping wells of fire.
O thou new year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat of song.
Alfred Tennyson.
