 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
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MARCH.
It is March,—the month of snow-drifts and of bleak and boisterous weather,
When the winter bids defiance to the spring,
But on this delightful morning they walk smilingly together,
Lover-like, but with no lover's quarreling.
When the winter bids defiance to the spring,
But on this delightful morning they walk smilingly together,
Lover-like, but with no lover's quarreling.
For the morn looks out in beauty, and the frost's enameled painting
On the pane, is slowly melting in the sun,—
On the white hills in the distance, soft the foggy haze is fainting,
From the eaves the drops are dripping, one by one.
On the pane, is slowly melting in the sun,—
On the white hills in the distance, soft the foggy haze is fainting,
From the eaves the drops are dripping, one by one.
Mossy knolls on yonder hill-side from the sinking snow are peeping,
And the sunlight rests there lovingly and fair,
And an April breeze that wooingly from yonder wood is sweeping,
Tells of young buds on the maple branches there.
And the sunlight rests there lovingly and fair,
And an April breeze that wooingly from yonder wood is sweeping,
Tells of young buds on the maple branches there.
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I can close my eyes, and fancy as I feel upon my forehead
The fragrant wind, and hear its pleasant tune,
That it is a summer zephyr, and its balmy breath is borrowed
From the blossoming and budding of young June.
The fragrant wind, and hear its pleasant tune,
That it is a summer zephyr, and its balmy breath is borrowed
From the blossoming and budding of young June.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |