Slayer of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bringst the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not the victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. William MorrisMarch. St. 1.
In fierce March weather White waves break tether, And whirled together At either hand, Like weeds uplifted, The tree-trunks rifted In spars are drifted, Like foam or sand. SwinburneFour Songs of Four Seasons. St. 11.
All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. TennysonThe May Queen. Conclusion.
Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whoopinganonanon! Theres joy in the mountains: Theres life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone. WordsworthWritten in March.