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by Ellen Church Williamson

The end of tiresome winter, the evidence of spring's advance;
Wet snow on the sagging spruce, the sight of a robin, perchance;
Strange month thou art, that must the two extremes possess;
But stranger still 'twould be, to from this rule digress.

If thy initial day like the mild lamb would be,
A lion's way will close thy days, unpleasantly.
For boon companion, we the sweet, mild lamb prefer;
Nor, in the open, would we the lion's wrath incur.

Yet, if the type of weather were given us to choose,
The first of March as lamblike, we surely would refuse.
We'd ask for winter weather to give it's one last fling,
And then when that is over, we'd have a lovely spring.

So, blow wild wind!  Blow, wind of the wintry gales!
Heap high the swirling snow, as thy mad fury flails
The house.  The naked maple's lordly strength defy,
And bend you towering elm's proud head from the sky.

Shriek some weird tale in tops of yonder group of pine,
And laugh thy hideous best to hear the lofty whine.
Beat fiercely, boisterous wind, upon my well barred door;
Into the smallest crack with thy chill breath explore.

Play winter's symphony upon the window pane;
And, like the tawny beast of prey with shaggy mane,
Who roars defiance at a threat to tame his power,
Roar now thy last, e'er welcome sweet spring gains her hour.

March 1944
Copyright, March 2001

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