Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Poets 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."