Mimma Bella - Part 3

III

'Tis March; and on the hills that stretch away

In misty furrows in the growing night

The peasants keep their old Etruscan rite,

And wave strange fires, like will-o'-wisps at play;

Chanting an incantation that shall lay

The spirits that bring drought and hail and blight,

And keeping with the sheaves and straw they light

In the green wheat all demon spite at bay.

Ah me! this spring we have no seed to shield

From Life's dark possibilities of ill;

Nor look we on the hills where wave the fires;

Nor, hopeful as the tillers of the field,

Repeat the words of magic that they still

Intone in March, as did their antique sires.