Moods Of March

Wild is the dance abroad to-night, As the drifts whirl to and fro; Loud is the voice of the raging storm; As the fierce gusts come and go; Black are the panes where the black night leans Like a homeless ghost in the snow. Black are the panes where the black night leans Within, it is warm and light. The fire purrs low and the kettle sings, And the lamps shine soft and bright. Little care we for the wind and cold, And little care we for the night. What is that cry, out-voicing the storm, That sounds on the drifted plain? What is that throbbing, thunderous roar? It is only the midnight train, Screaming and thundering through the night, Like a monster mad with pain, Silent as sleep is the wintry morn; All spotless the snowdrifts lie; Pillars of smoke from household flres Mount straight to the cold, blue sky. Yonder a “freight” creeps heavy, and slow, Where the night train thunderedby. Wild was the night, and cold the morn; It is noon, and the warm wind blows; The eaves run streams, and under our feet Is the slush of the melting snow. Birds are singing, the air is like May, And the wild geese north-ward go. Poets, writing your odes to spring— Your poems of stanzas ten— Haste to finish, for moods of March Are changeful as moods of men. I tried it once, but the wind veered north, And the ink froze on my pen.