The cutting winds of nascent March
bend the trees in gleeful rage
stripping buds and breaking boughs
to build its hard and bitter stage.
On which it prances proud and stern
giving out of seasons cold
playing parts both good and bad
and caring less as it grows old.
Until at last it's April's part
and soughing mild replaces chill
to rain and song the stage is given
and golden blooms the branches fill.
Now the year turns new to newer
a glowing carpet swells the host
the biting act is wholly done
and Spring's the star we cheer the most.