Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel through her spirit the sense of thee flow.
* * * * *
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
The Nineteenth Century. March, 1888.
Another Ode To March.
(Being a Counterblast to Mr. A. C. Swinburne’s rhythmical rhapsody in the “Nineteenth Century.” By one who has certainly “learned in suffering” what he endeavours to “teach in song.”)
Ere frost-slush and snow-slopping dried up and went, and the horrors of Winter had slid out of sight,
The ways of the wood pavement fouler were far than a clay-country lane on a mucky March night.
The breath of the month of the winds had stabbed us through top-coats and mufflers, and made us afraid.