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March Poems

Table of Contents

  1. March by William Cullen Bryant
  2. March by Mary Mapes Dodge
  3. To March by Emily Dickinson
  4. March by Emily Dickinson
  5. A March Glee by John Burroughs
  6. A March Motto by Anonymous
  7. March by Rebecca Hey
  8. A Laughing Chorus by Anonymous
  9. March, March by Annette Wynne
  10. Never Mind, March by Annette Wynne
  11. Jack Frost in March by Annette Wynne
  12. March by Annette Wynne
  13. Every One Knows March's Way by Annette Wynne
  14. Moods of March by Ellen P. Allerton

  1. March

    by William Cullen Bryant

    The stormy March is come at last,
    With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
    I hear the rushing of the blast,
    That through the snowy valley flies.

    Ah, passing few are they who speak,
    Wild stormy month! in praise of thee;
    Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
    Thou art a welcome month to me.

    For thou, to northern lands again,
    The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
    And thou hast joined the gentle train
    And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

    And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
    Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
    When the changed winds are soft and warm,
    And heaven puts on the blue of May.

    Then sing aloud the gushing rills
    And the full springs, from frost set free,
    That, brightly leaping down the hills,
    Are just set out to meet the sea.

    The year's departing beauty hides
    Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
    But, in thy sternest frown abides
    A look of kindly promise yet.

    Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
    And that soft time of sunny showers,
    When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
    Seems of a brighter world than ours.

  2. March

    by Mary Mapes Dodge

    In the snowing and the blowing,
    In the cruel sleet,
    Little flowers begin their growing
    Far beneath our feet.

    Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,—
    "Darlings, are you here?"
    Till they answer, "We are nearly,
    Nearly ready, dear."

    "Where is Winter, with his snowing?
    Tell us, Spring," they say.
    Then she answers, "He is going,
    Going on his way.

    "Poor old Winter does not love you;
    But his time is past;
    Soon my birds shall sing above you;—
    Set you free at last."

  3. To March

    by Emily Dickinson

    Dear March, come in!
    How glad I am!
    I looked for you before.
    Put down your hat —
    You must have walked —
    How out of breath you are!
    Dear March, how are you?
    And the rest?
    Did you leave Nature well?
    Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
    I have so much to tell!

    I got your letter, and the birds';
    The maples never knew
    That you were coming, — I declare,
    How red their faces grew!
    But, March, forgive me —
    And all those hills
    You left for me to hue;
    There was no purple suitable,
    You took it all with you.

    Who knocks? That April!
    Lock the door!
    I will not be pursued!
    He stayed away a year, to call
    When I am occupied.
    But trifles look so trivial
    As soon as you have come,
    That blame is just as dear as praise
    And praise as mere as blame.

  4. March

    by Emily Dickinson

    We like March, his shoes are purple,
    He is new and high;
    Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
    Makes he forest dry;
    Knows the adder's tongue his coming,
    And begets her spot.
    Stands the sun so close and mighty
    That our minds are hot.
    News is he of all the others;
    Bold it were to die
    With the blue-birds buccaneering
    On his British sky.

  5. A March Glee

    by John Burroughs

    I hear the wild geese honking
    From out the misty night,—
    A sound of moving armies
    On-sweeping in their might;
    The river ice is drifting
    Beneath their northward flight.

    I hear the bluebird plaintive
    From out the morning sky,
    Or see his wings a-twinkle
    That with the azure vie;
    No other bird more welcome,
    No more prophetic cry.

    I hear the sparrow's ditty
    Anear my study door;
    A simple song of gladness
    That winter days are o'er
    My heart is singing with him,
    I love him more and more.

    I hear the starling fluting
    His liquid "O-ka-lee;"
    I hear the downy drumming,
    His vernal reveillé;
    From out the maple orchard
    The nuthatch calls to me.

    Oh, spring is surely coming.
    Her couriers fill the air;
    Each morn are new arrivals,
    Each night her ways prepare;
    I scent her fragrant garments,
    Her foot is on the stair.

  6. A March Motto

    by Anonymous

    Month of bluster, ice and sleet,
    Silent wood and ugly street,
    Winds that roar and flakes that fly,
    Frozen earth and gloomy sky,—
    Angry March, thy name to me
    Like a battle-cry shall be!
    "Forward, march!" but leave behind
    Stubborn will and stupid mind.
    "Forward, march!" and sing a song
    As we stoutly march along.
    "Forward, march!" away from sin;
    "Forward, march!" the goal to win;
    "Forward, march!" without a fear;
    "Forward, march!" through all the year.

  7. March

    by Rebecca Hey

    Could sullen Winter, in his mid career,
    Call from his magazine of storm and cloud,
    A ruder gale than this How shrill how loud,
    Its angry dissonance assails the ear!
    Where be those tokens now which late did cheer
    The trusting heart with hopes that Spring was nigh?
    Ah! as I gaze around, earth, sea, and sky,
    In mournful cadence, seem to answer "Where?"
    Yet wait we patiently a little while—
    The boon for which we sigh is but delay'd;
    So sure as Nature's summer charms did fade
    At Autumn's touch, so sure at Spring's sweet smile
    Shall trees again bud forth, and flowers unfold,
    "And all be vernal rapture as of old."

  8. A Laughing Chorus

    by Anonymous

    Oh, such a commotion under the ground When March called, "Ho, there! ho!"
    Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whispering to and fro;
    And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked, "'Tis time to start, you know."
    "Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; "I'll follow as soon as you go."
    Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low,
    From the millions of flowers under the ground, Yes—millions—beginning to grow.

    O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days, Imprisoned in walls of brown,
    They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down,
    But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown;
    And now they are coming to brighten the world, Still shadowed by Winter's frown;
    And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" In a chorus soft and low,
    The millions of flowers hid under the ground Yes—millions—beginning to grow.

  9. March, March

    by Annette Wynne

    March, March, all the day,
    Winds of March, please march away;
    March away with noisy drum
    For the flowers want to come;
    March away through every street,
    Noisy tramp of noisy feet,
    Noisy music all the way—
    March, March, March away!

    March, March, never still,
    March away from lane and hill,
    March away from nook and glen,
    April wants to come again;
    March away with tramp and roar,
    April waits outside the door;
    Flowers and children want to play—
    March, March, March away!

  10. Never Mind, March

    by Annette Wynne

    Never mind, March, we know
    When you blow
    You're not really mad
    Or angry or bad;
    You're only blowing the winter away
    To get the world ready for April and May.

  11. Jack Frost in March

    by Annette Wynne

    Now changeable the children grow,
    All winter long they liked the snow,
    But now they're begging me to go.

    November when the wind was shrill
    They cried me welcome with a will,
    But now they're begging me be still.

    They're begging me to hurry by,
    "Jack Frost, Jack Frost, please go," they cry,
    "And let dear spring come to the sky!"

  12. March

    by Annette Wynne

    March is windy, March is wild,
    Hurries like an eager child;
    Puffing mouth and ruddy face,
    Rushing in a windy race;
    A breath or two he stops, and then
    He's puffing madly off again.

    March is windy, March is wild,
    A rushing, blowing, puffing child.
    And why does March go rushing so?
    He's trying to catch spring, you know.

  13. Every One Knows March's Way

    by Annette Wynne

    Every one knows March's way,
    Rushing, blowing, night and day,
    Rushing, blowing, day and night,
    Not a single flower in sight,
    Not a bud upon a tree,
    But wait until the end and see
    When March is packed at last to go,
    Every twig will start to grow—
    All in a trice, before you know.

  14. Moods of March

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Wild is the dance abroad to-night,
    As the drifts whirl to and fro;
    Loud is the voice of the raging storm;
    As the fierce gusts come and go;
    Black are the panes where the black night leans
    Like a homeless ghost in the snow.

    Black are the panes where the black night leans
    Within, it is warm and light.
    The fire purrs low and the kettle sings,
    And the lamps shine soft and bright.
    Little care we for the wind and cold,
    And little care we for the night.

    What is that cry, out-voicing the storm,
    That sounds on the drifted plain?
    What is that throbbing, thunderous roar?
    It is only the midnight train,
    Screaming and thundering through the night,
    Like a monster mad with pain,

    Silent as sleep is the wintry morn;
    All spotless the snowdrifts lie;
    Pillars of smoke from household flres
    Mount straight to the cold, blue sky.
    Yonder a "freight" creeps heavy, and slow,
    Where the night train thunderedby.

    Wild was the night, and cold the morn;
    It is noon, and the warm wind blows;
    The eaves run streams, and under our feet
    Is the slush of the melting snow.
    Birds are singing, the air is like May,
    And the wild geese north-ward go.

    Poets, writing your odes to spring—
    Your poems of stanzas ten—
    Haste to finish, for moods of March
    Are changeful as moods of men.
    I tried it once, but the wind veered north,
    And the ink froze on my pen.