MARCH IN THE TROPICS 
 
WHAT ails thee, earth ?  Is not the breath of Spring 
Exultant on thy breast ?  What aileth thee, 
O many-mooded melancholy sea ? 
Hear the swift rush of that triumphant wing ! 
Listen !  the world’s whole heart is listening ! 
In England now the leaf leaps, and the tree 
Gleams dewy, and the bird woos noisily. 
Here in the tropics now is no such thing. 
 
Dull heavy heat burns through the clouded sky, 
And yet no promise of the latter rains. 
Earth bears her fruit, but unrefreshed of death. 
In winter is no sorrow, in the dry 
Harsh spring no joy, while pestilence and pains 
Hover like wolves behind the summer’s breath. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I02