Classic Poem

With fresh gales rushing through the shivering trees,
Drives crashing March. The white clouds southward fly,
And up between them shine blue fields of sky.
The lark's first carol rings among the leas.
Now search the moorlands for the earliest flower,
Timidly blushing 'neath the tempest's wing,
Violet and primrose in the shelter'd bower;
While little lambs are sporting by the spring.
Beside their teams the merry plough-boys sing.
Twitter the birds where golden furze-flowers shine;
The crocus blossoms in the garden ring,
And wood and wold are full of lays Divine.
The hopeful sower sows the precious seed,
With trust in Heaven, upon the furrow'd mead.