Volume Iii Part 13 (1/2)

MARCH

Blossom on the plum, Wild wind and merry; Leaves upon the cherry, And one swallow come.

Red windy dawn, Swift rain and sunny; Wild bees seeking honey, Crocus on the lawn; Blossom on the plum.

Gra.s.s begins to grow, Dandelions come; Snowdrops haste to go After last month's snow; Rough winds beat and blow, Blossom on the plum.

Nora Hopper [1871-1906]

WRITTEN IN MARCH

The c.o.c.k is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE Pa.s.sING OF MARCH

The braggart March stood in the season's door With his broad shoulders blocking up the way, Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore, And from the fringes of his kirtle gray.

Near by him April stood with tearful face, With violets in her hands, and in her hair Pale, wild anemones; the fragrant lace Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair, Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there.

She on the bl.u.s.terer's arm laid one white hand, But he would none of her soft blandishment, Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand, For even the fiercest hearts at last relent.

And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness, With one swift, crus.h.i.+ng kiss her lips did greet.

Ah, poor starved heart!--for that one rude caress, She cast her violets underneath his feet.

Robert Burns Wilson [1850-1916]

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with h.o.a.ry dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The b.u.t.tercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

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