Classic Poem

Now March's beech trees, rising dry
And clear, before the pale blue sky
Show fair, with rind all shining white
Along their limbs and through their height,
Ere yet their leaves have thicken'd green,
To make, above the ground, a screen
Against the flighty wind that strews
The whirling dead leaves round our shoes.
Though March's silv'ry moon is cold
The sun becomes of glowing gold.

And now the rain-fill'd streams are roll'd
Brim high and sun beglared, but cold,
As here they glide, and there they brawl,
To rattle down a foamy fall.
And now we find upon our way
Young children out of doors at play;
And meet, in lane, or field, at whiles,
A face that shines, if not with smiles.
Though March's silv'ry moon is cold
The sun may soon be warming gold.

Since poor folk in the stinging frost
Burnt firing up to heavy cost,
Let children's little finger tips
Pick up, in late cleared woods, the chips
Or dead wood cast by storms below
The trees so lately white with snow,
For winds that chill'd your blood with sleet
Then cast you down dead wood for heat.
Though March's silv'ry moon is cold
The sun may soon be glowing gold.

Now grain, wherewith the sowers trust
The ground, upwakes through warmer dust
To summer life, as world-wide days
Warm opening buds on quiv'ring sprays,
And flocks of glossy rooks alight
On sunny ground in sinking flight,
Too often slain for theft of wheat,
When taking noisome worms for meat.
Though March's silv'ry moon is cold
The sun may soon be glowing gold.