Blow, winds of March, and bring the brightening days!
Blow, ruthless winds! for life is in your breath.
The moorland skies are colourless as death,
Bleak are the meads and all the woodland ways.
Earth faints for glimpses of the unseen blue,
So long deferred the hope of shining hours.
O stormy winds! the trees and waking flowers
Are calling, and their cry is unto you.
Breathe round the orchards, till the gaunt grey boughs
Dream of wet-petalled blooms and mellowing fruits.
Crisp the dank moss about gnarled forest roots,
And bid from sleep the sweet frail faces rouse.
Come forth, and with white glories let the lanes
Hide their young leaves; with silent laughter fill
The curl'd lips of the yellow daffodil,
And wring from drifting clouds the April rains.
Blow, winds of March, and fill the homeward sails
Far out on boisterous seas; the foam-wave parts
Before the rushing prow, and eager hearts
Hunger for home; more welcome the wild gales
Than all the spice winds of the southern deep.
Blow, then! we shall not tremble, but rejoice
To hear you through the night with clarion voice
Calling upon the world to wake from sleep.
