march.
165
The birds still wander in southern lands,
Afar from the clime they left;
And the streams still sleep in their icy bands,
And the giant oak of the forest, stands
Of his emerald robe bereft.
Afar from the clime they left;
And the streams still sleep in their icy bands,
And the giant oak of the forest, stands
Of his emerald robe bereft.
The clouds are dark on thy frowning skies,
Like the leaden pall of night;
And they wave like massive draperies,
Till a flush of sunset's crimson dyes
Hath turned them to banners bright.
Like the leaden pall of night;
And they wave like massive draperies,
Till a flush of sunset's crimson dyes
Hath turned them to banners bright.
Oh: why should'st thou bear the name of Spring,
Thou month of cold and gloom?
Her gentle treasures thou can'st not bring,
For in greener bowers the wild birds sing,
And the flowers forget to bloom.
Thou month of cold and gloom?
Her gentle treasures thou can'st not bring,
For in greener bowers the wild birds sing,
And the flowers forget to bloom.
The city belle, with a pensive sigh,
Deplores thy rigorous sway;
The winter's garb she would fain lay by,
And robed like the light-winged butterfly,
Come forth with the insects gay.
Deplores thy rigorous sway;
The winter's garb she would fain lay by,
And robed like the light-winged butterfly,
Come forth with the insects gay.
