March

Ah, surly March ! you've come again,
With sleet and snow, and hail and rain;
Cold earth beneath, dark sky above you,
What have you, pray, to make us love you?
No month is half so rough as you,
December winds less harshly blew;
What churlish ways! what storm-tossed tresses!
Your presence every one distresses!
Haste, haste away! We longing wait
To greet fair April at our gate.
Cold earth beneath, dark sky above you,
Surely you've naught to make us love you!
"Ah, see these blossoms!" he replied,
Tossing his hail-torn cloak aside,_
"Though other months have flowers a-many,
Say, are not mine as fair as any?
See, peeping from each dusky fold,
The crocus with its cup of gold;
Violets, snowdrops white and stilly,
Sweeter than any summer lily;
And underneath the old oak-leaves
Her fragrant wreath the arbutus weaves,_
Whatever sky may be above me,
Surely for these all hearts will love me!"
M.M.H. Conway