March

MARCH comes at last, the labouring lands to free.
Rude blusterer, with thy cloud-compelling blast,
The pining plains from cark of Winter past  
That clear'st and carpetest each bush and tree
With daffodil and wood-anemone,
A voice from the illimitable Vast
Of dreams thou art, the tale that doth forecast
Of hope yet live and happiness to be.
And hark, the robin fluting on the bough
The rough breeze tangling on his tender breast
The ruddy plumes! Yet sings he, unopprest,
The awakening year, the blessed burgeoning
In wood and weald, the Then becoming Now
And all the pleasant presage of the Spring.