i.
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such
mirth had the madness and might in thee made,
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of
storms that enkindle the season they smite.
ii.
iii.
So time overcomes the regret that is born of delight as
it passes in passion away,
And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in or mourn
for with tears or thanksgivings; but thou,
Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and gladdest
of months, to what goal hast thou gone from us now?
For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter that
lightens, the beat of thy wings that play,
Must flame as a fire through the world, and the heavens
that we know not rejoice in thee: surely thy brow
Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit the joy
that impelled it on quest as for prey.
v.
Is it March with the wild north world when April is
waning? the word that the changed year saith,
Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion reiterate
from spirits triumphant as we
Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy clarions as
men's rearisen from a sleep that was death
And kindled to life that was one with the world's and with
thine? hast thou set not the whole world free?
vi.
And the world that thy breath bade whiten and tremble
rejoices at heart as they strengthen and shine,
And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed her, and
knows of thy reign that it wrought not wrong.
vii.