Not without its signposts, as for some Sports' day;
daffodil-bulbs begin to spell themselves in the air;
the tracks limed with frost, and dirtied in the day;
the trees thrown in disorder like the false teeth of winter.
February: the name of some poet-knight of lesser calibre;
but perfectly in place, by his steaming horse at dawn;
and coming off the stronger January like a new king:
the haemophilic, the weak, before a disappointed people.
What lights are so low as February lights? When Spring
keeps her identity safely for March -- despite the shoots.
February is a wax candle, honoured only by the bringing out:
the unstruck match belongs to its matchbox on the shelf.
Yet, every hour of February's waxen blood is holy time:
and no part of God's whole creation the less sublime!