Page:Sour Grapes.djvu/18



Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous bitterness of wind, and sky shining teasingly, then closing in black and sudden, with fierce jaws.

March,
 * you remind me of

the pyramids, our pyramids— stript of the polished stone that used to guard them! March,you are like Fra Angelico at Fiesole, painting on plaster!

March,
 * you are like a band of

young poets that have not learned the blessedness of warmth (or have forgotten it).

At any rate— I am moved to write poetry for the warmth there is in it and for the loneliness— a poem that shall have you
 * in it March.