Blow, wild March wind! In hollows of the lea,
In copses low, thy bride awaiteth thee--
The timid, saint-like, white anemone.
She will not show her face, though woo'd by kings,
Till o'er her beat the pulsings of thy wings.
Blow, wild March wind! that we her face may see,
Through pine-clad gorges by our northward sea,
Through English woodlands where the blackcap sings.
Blow, wild March wind!
She lifts her face. The answering passion stings
Her veinèd leaves, at the rough kiss he brings.
Sing round her bridal couch thy melody,
Thy breath is life to her. Apart from thee
She droops and dies, the frailest of frail things--
Then blow, March wind!