Classic Poem

From the meadow, glebe and wold,
Fettered stream and pulseless mold,
Take thy fingers, icy cold,
March.
Cruel tyrant, fierce and bold,
March.

We are tired of wind and rain,
With their pitiful refrain,
Wailing over hill and plain,
March.
To the frozen Arctic main,
March.

We are tired of frost and snow.
Driving, drifting to and fro—
Gloom above and gloom below,
March.
Fold thy tattered robes and go,
March.

Tired of yellow fog and haze,
Starless nights and sunless days,
Dripping eaves and miry ways,
March.
Thou hast naught to love or praise,
March.

Take thy banners from the skies,
Let us see the old sun rise,
Let us know when daylight dies,
March,
With thy dreary sobs and sighs,
March.

Earth awaits a sunny queen,
From the South, in robes of green.
Thou art standing just between,
March,
With thy winds so cutting keen,
March.

Frozen fallow field, and how
Hidden germ and leafless bough
Long for thy departure now,
March,
With thy snow-wreaths round thy brow,
March.

No soft South wind wandering free,
No sweet song of bird or bee,
No fair blossom greeteth thee,
March,
Thou art feared on land and sea,
March.

Human eye can never trace
Aught of beauty or of grace
In thy haggard form and face,
March.
Most unkind of all thy race,