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Poem	Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will: Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed The ardent summer's joy to have and taste; Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed, To recon clear the new life's sterner need; Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!
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