Then melt (about the vernal equinox),
As he did in the softer arms of Venus;—
O Month, before your final moon is set,
Much may have happened—anything, in fact;
More than in any March that I have met
(Last year excepted) fearful nerves are racked;
Anarchy does with Russia what it likes;
Paris is put conundrums very knotty;
And here in England, with its talk of strikes,
Men, like your own March hares, seem going dotty.