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March, wild March, with her wind-blown locks,
Goes scurrying across the plain,
Through the deep woods and on the rough rocks,
And now in the sunshine, now in the rain,
The warmth of sweet Spring just felt in her breath,
Then as cold again as the frosts of death.


What is thy mission, an unkind one?
Art only Nature's wayward child?
Oh no! for thee there is work to be done,
Although so changeable, wilful, and wild.
Thou art sent to prepare for coming Spring,
Who, now with her bird-troop is on the wing.


'Tis thine the dormant trees to awake,
Shaking their sturdy branches grim
Until the hard oaks to their centres quake,
Oft severing them even limb from limb,
Until o'er the ground in fragments they lay,
Thus pruning the forests, arresting decay.


'Tis thine the snow-clouds to sweep from the sky,
To paint the sunset with rosier hue,
To awake the dormouse and crickets that lie
Under the moss and leaves hidden from view;
To dry the soil, that the farmer again
May sow the fresh seed, and reap the ripe grain.