William Wordsworth

Written in March

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The plowboy is whooping—anon—anon:

There's joy in the mountains,

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!