söndag 4 mars 2012


Month which the warring ancients strangely styled
 The month of war, — as if in their fierce ways
 Were any month of peace! — in thy rough days
 I find no war in Nature, though the wild
 Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled
 At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise
 Their heads without affright, without amaze,
 And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.
 And he who watches well may well discern
 Sweet expectation in each living thing.
 Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn;
 In secret joy makes ready for the spring;
 And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear
 Annunciation lilies for the year.
 From "A Calendar of Sonnets" by Helen Hunt Jackson (1891)

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