March

Upon the wintry trees

A few dead leaves are hung;

They rattle in the breeze

The mournful boughs among.

As in December old

The earth is dark and drear;

No newer buds unfold --

Yet Spring, the Spring is here.

And in the grass there grows

A fragrant violet;

No other flower knows,

No one hath told them yet.

Nor yet the bees forsake

The threshold of their home;

No voice hath bid them wake,

Hath cried "The Spring is come!"

The sky is dark and low,

Unswept by swallow wings.

But soft the South doth blow,

Sudden the blackbird sings.