March
The north-east wind has come from Norroway,
Roaring he came above the white waves’ tips!
The foam of the loud sea was on his lips,
And all his hair was salt with falling spray.
Over the keen light of northern day
He cast his snow cloud’s terrible eclipse;
Beyond our banks he suddenly struck the ships,
And left them labouring on his landward way.
The certain course that to his strength belongs
Drives him with gathering purpose and control
Until across Vendean flats he sees
Ocean, the eldest of his enemies.
Then wheels he for him, glorying in his goal,
And gives him challenge, bellowing battle-songs.