By Hattie Howard
March, thou month of varied weather!
Mild and frigid joined together—
“Winter,” amorous poets sing,
“Ling’ring in the lap of Spring.”
Full of reckless threat and bluster
Thou, like daring filibuster,
Will not yield thy fitful way,
Though a king dispute thy sway.
Month of terror, storm, and blizzard!
Never work of skillful wizard,
Though in magic unsurpassed,
Surer, swifter than the last.
Period of expectation!
Link between the desolation
And the glory of the year—
Time of roses drawing near.
Monarch viewed in many guises
Giving, as in rare surprises,
While we stand with cold benumb,
Hints of balminess to come.
March, like mortals waxing crazy
For the arbutus and daisy,
Violet and crocus-cup
Round our pathway springing up.
Timidly the grass is creeping,
Daffodils awake from sleeping,
And the long-dismantled woods
Are alive with bursting buds.
Sweetest notes are bluebirds trilling,
Leafless groves with music filling,
To whose tuneful prophecies
Every heart responsive is.
Fickle March! from thee we borrow
Rays of promise for the morrow;
For are coming, soon or late,
Perfect days—if we but wait.