The Poet’s Calendar

JANUARY

Janus am I; oldest of potentates;
&nbsp Forward I look, and backward, and below
I count, as god of avenues and gates,
&nbsp The years that through my portals come and go.
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow;
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen;
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.

FEBRUARY

I am lustration, and the sea is mine.
&nbsp I wash the sands and headlands with my tide;
My brow is crowned with branches of the pine;
&nbsp Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide.
By me all things unclean are purified,
&nbsp By me the souls of men washed white again;
E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died
&nbsp Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain.

MARCH

I Martius am! Once first, and now the third!
&nbsp To lead the Year was my appointed place;
A mortal dispossessed me by a word,
&nbsp And set there Janus with the double face.
Hence I make war on all the human race;
&nbsp I shake the cities with my hurricanes;
I flood the rivers and their banks efface,
&nbsp And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains.

APRIL

I open wide the portals of the Spring
&nbspTo welcome the procession of the flowers,
With their gay banners, and the birds that sing
&nbsp Their song of songs from their aerial towers.
I soften with my sunshine and my showers
&nbsp The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide
Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours
&nbsp Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride.

MAY

Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
&nbsp My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
These are my heralds, and behold! my name
&nbsp Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
&nbsp I waft o'er all the land from far away
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
&nbsp My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May.

JUNE

Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
&nbsp The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
&nbsp The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
&nbsp The mower's scythe makes music to my ear;
I am the mother of all dear delights;
&nbsp I am the fairest daughter of the year.

JULY

My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe
&nbsp The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land;
My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe,
&nbsp And bent before me the pale harvests stand.
The lakes and rivers shrink at my command,
&nbsp And there is thirst and fever in the air;
The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand;
&nbsp I am the Emperor whose name I bear.

AUGUST

The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
&nbsp I being his favorite, bestowed his name
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
&nbsp In memory of him and of his fame.
I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame
&nbsp Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage;
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
&nbsp The golden Harvests as my heritage.

SEPTEMBER

I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise
&nbsp The night and day; and when unto my lips
I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise
&nbsp Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships;
The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips;
&nbsp Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight;
The hedges are all red with haws and hips,
&nbsp The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night.

OCTOBER

My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,
&nbsp Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;
I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves,
&nbsp O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,
&nbsp The dreamy air is full, and overflows
With tender memories of the summer-tide,
&nbsp And mingled voices of the doves and crows.

NOVEMBER

The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
&nbsp Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace;
With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly,
&nbsp A steed Thessalian with a human face.
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
&nbsp The leaves, half dead already with affright;
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
&nbsp Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.

DECEMBER

Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair,
&nbsp I come, the last of all. This crown of mine
Is of the holly; in my hand I bear
&nbsp The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine.
I celebrate the birth of the Divine,
&nbsp And the return of the Saturnian reign;—
My songs are carols sung at every shrine,
&nbsp Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men."