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In the glory of doing he had no thought for the thing done. His was the midsummer madness of slaying. In that singing moment how should he remember the bleak and shuddering autumn of pain inevitably to follow? the winter of clammy death? the March-wind voices of distant women wailing their mates? "Jam, ain't it?" yelled a man in his ear, as they raced up the ladder.
But days even earlier than these in April have a charm, even days that seem raw and rainy, when the sky is dull and a bequest of March-wind lingers, chasing the squirrel from the tree and the children from the meadows. There is a fascination in walking through these bare early woods, there is such a pause of preparation, winter's work is so cleanly and thoroughly done.
And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey." The constant warfare implied in the evolutionary theory of the survival of the fittest did not keep Tennyson from also presenting nature in her gentler aspects. In Maud, the lover sings "...whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes,"
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