William Cullen Bryant


The stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,

Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again

The glad and glorious sun dost bring;

And thou hast joined the gentle train

And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.