Classic Poem

Welcome, here, cold March winds blowing,
Welcome are the songs you sing,
Each discordant, shrill vibration,
Is a messenger of spring.

Blow, now, March winds, blow at pleasure
Rush o'er moorland, field and plain,
Far and wide bear ye the tidings,
That the spring returns again.

Spring, when all new life is given,
Thou art ever welcome here,
For thy voice is sweet with singing,
And thy face is ever dear.

In thy time sweet hope returning
Steals into despairing hearts,
And with subtile feeling touching,
Vigor and new life imparts.

'Tis a time when birds are mating,
And is heard the burnished dove,
Pouring out his heart in cooing,
Of his constancy and love.

'Tis a time when sounds are pleasing,
And when whispers fill the air,
Sounds whose sources have no telling,
For they come from everywhere.

'Tis a time when meadows glisten,
With the dew drops of the morn,
When the lilacs and the lilies,
And the modest rose are born.

Then it is sweet smelling flora
Maketh fragrant all the air,
Then it is that life feels lighter,
And a lessening of care.

Then it is that youth is happy,
And the fancies are as light,
As uncertain and as lofty,
As the careless school boy's kite.

Welcome, then, cold March winds blowing,
Soon thy howl away shall die,
Die in summer breezes sighing,
Soft as any lover's sigh.

Welcome, here, cold March winds blowing,
Welcome are the songs you sing,
Each discordant, shrill vibration
Is a messenger of spring.