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!