by Virna Sheard
Windy March weather, with a lone crow flying,
A little ebony airship careening down the blue,
And high, high above him a wild goose crying,
The leading cry, the clarion cry, that guides his grey lines through!
Windy March weather, with the pine trees singing,
Silver-red the brambles show and silver-green the birch,
And silver-grey a squirrel on a top branch swinging,—
A friendly elf who nods to me from his far perilous perch.
Windy March weather, with the tawny brook that hurries
Eager for the outward rush of rivers to the sea;
A tiny brook sun-dappled, that frets and sings and worries,
A rough adventurous little brook that calls and calls to me!
Windy March weather, and the old spring madness
Tempting us to take the trail that wanders free and far,—
Whispering of magic roads that wind to lands of gladness,
Where vanished joys and lost delights and garnered treasures are!