| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The March Thaw | | By Edwin Curran |
| | | ON—turgid, bellowing—tramp the freshet rills, | |
| Heaped up with yellow wine, the winter’s brew. | |
| Out-thrown, they choke and tumble from the hills, | |
| And lash their tawny bodies, whipping through. | |
| With flattened bells comes scudding purple rain; | 5 |
| The cold sky breaks and drenches out the snow. | |
| Far from the perfect circle of the sky | |
| The heavy winds lick off the boughs they blow; | |
| And fields are cleansed for plows to slice again, | |
| For April shall laugh downward by and by. | 10 |
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| With purifying blasts the wind stalks out | |
| And sweeps the carrion of winter on; | |
| It prods the dank mists, stamps with jest about, | |
| And sows the first blooms on the greening lawn. | |
| Far up the planks of sky the winter’s dross | 15 |
| Goes driven to the north; her rank smells wave | |
| In unseen humors to the icy pole. | |
| The charwomen of the sky, with brushes, lave | |
| And wash the fields for green, and rocks for moss, | |
| And busily polish up the earth’s dull soul. | 20 | | | |
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