HOW stern is March, with blasts that warm or chill; 

Now like some peevish grandame, fuming, sputtering; 

Now fierce to whirl the wandering dust-clouds wide; 

Now bright with sunny gleams through discords muttering! 

Yet spirits of leaves, that in bare boughs abide, 

Mysterious happiness are mutely uttering, 

And under many a streamlet's barren side 

The violet's hidden hearts are softly fluttering! 

—Wide Awake