Poems (McDonald)/March

by Mary Noel McDonald

For works with similar titles, see March.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And the cottage girl hath her 'kerchief blue,
 And ribbon of pearly white,
And she looks full oft at their spotless hue,
And asks, "will the sunbeams ne'er peep through,
 And the skies again look bright?"

Oh! why should'st thou bear a gentle name,
 Thou month so drear and chill?
We hear thy blast through the forest ring,
And ask in vain for the meek-eyed Spring,
 For Winter is with us still.