The March Wind

Wild was the wind of March, restless in play,

Snatched rudely at my hat and bore it away.

Over the garden hedge lightly it flew,

Fell at Margaret's feet, what could I do!

Gently she raised it, and brushed it with care,

Then placed within the band a violet fair;

Tossed it again to me, not a word said;

When I'd fain speak my thanks, lo! she had fled!

There stand I daily while swift the hours go,

Wait for the breeze, but the breeze will not blow;

Sometimes I see her by happiest chance,

But the maid never will send me a glance.

If the wind fail me, I know what I'll do,

Throw the hat at her feet, and follow it too!