Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,
Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snow
All scentless drifting to the earth below.
Alike on Provence’ violet-studded fields,
And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,
Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent—
The church’s sorrow with spring’s promise blent.
Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,
With shining altars in glad white arrayed,