164
MARCH
Thou art a rude and noisy wight,
Though thou bear'st the name of spring;
And the wintery winds with their chilling blight,
That we thought were gone to the realms of night,
Come back on thy restless wing.
We look in vain for the gentle flowers,
That blush with the spring-time gay;
They wait till soft April's dewy showers
Shall waken the leaves, and the-woodland bowers
Are decked in their green array.
That blush with the spring-time gay;
They wait till soft April's dewy showers
Shall waken the leaves, and the-woodland bowers
Are decked in their green array.
