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March Poems

Table of Contents

  1. March Thought by Hilda Conkling
  2. March by William Cullen Bryant
  3. March by Mary Mapes Dodge
  4. To March by Emily Dickinson
  5. March by Emily Dickinson
  6. A March Glee by John Burroughs
  7. A March Motto by Anonymous
  8. March by Rebecca Hey
  9. A Laughing Chorus by Anonymous
  10. March, March by Annette Wynne
  11. Never Mind, March by Annette Wynne
  12. Jack Frost in March by Annette Wynne
  13. March by Annette Wynne
  14. Every One Knows March's Way by Annette Wynne
  15. Moods of March by Ellen P. Allerton
  16. March by Hattie Howard
  17. March by Mary B. C. Slade
  18. The Passing of March by Ada A. Mosher
  19. March in the Mountains by Ada A. Mosher
  20. March and April by Annette Wynne
  21. The March Wind Comes by Annette Wynne
  22. The Winds of March by Annette Wynne
  23. End of March by Annette Wynne
  24. March by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
  25. March by Julia Ellen Jenkins
  26. March Morning by Edna Mead
  27. An April Jest by Ruby Archer
  28. March Sunset by Hilda Conkling
  29. March Metaphors by Ruby Archer
  30. Oh, Ye March Winds by Albina Brockway Letts
  31. March by Douglas Malloch
  32. March Horses by Edith Franklin Wyatt

  1. March Thought

    by Hilda Conkling

    I am waiting for the flowers
    To come back:
    I am alone,
    But I can wait for the birds.

  2. 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.

  3. 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."

  4. 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.

  5. 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.

  6. 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.

  7. 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.

  8. 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."

  9. 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.

  10. 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!

  11. 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.

  12. 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!"

  13. 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.

  14. 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.

  15. 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.

  16. March

    by Hattie Howard

    March, thou month of varied weather!
    Mild and frigid joined together—
    "Winter," amorous poets sing,
    "Ling'ring in the lap of Spring."

    Full of reckless threat and bluster
    Thou, like daring filibuster,
    Will not yield thy fitful way,
    Though a king dispute thy sway.

    Month of terror, storm, and blizzard!
    Never work of skillful wizard,
    Though in magic unsurpassed,
    Surer, swifter than the last.

    Period of expectation!
    Link between the desolation
    And the glory of the year—
    Time of roses drawing near.

    Monarch viewed in many guises
    Giving, as in rare surprises,
    While we stand with cold benumb,
    Hints of balminess to come.

    March, like mortals waxing crazy
    For the arbutus and daisy,
    Violet and crocus-cup
    Round our pathway springing up.

    Timidly the grass is creeping,
    Daffodils awake from sleeping,
    And the long-dismantled woods
    Are alive with bursting buds.

    Sweetest notes are bluebirds trilling,
    Leafless groves with music filling,
    To whose tuneful prophecies
    Every heart responsive is.

    Fickle March! from thee we borrow
    Rays of promise for the morrow;
    For are coming, soon or late,
    Perfect days—if we but wait.

  17. March

    by Mary B. C. Slade

    The stormy March has come again,—
    March! March! March!
    And rattling down the window pane,—
    March! March! March!
    Come rushing torrents of the rain,—
    March! March! March!
    But o'er my head my hat I swing,
    And shout hurrah! like anything!
    Because it is the first of Spring,—
    March! March! March!

  18. The Passing of March

    by Ada A. Mosher

    O stern, but kindly-faced, we call thee rough—
    We know thee not, sweet nurse of flowers, for, lo!
    That voice is tender which is sweet enough
    To sing awake the violets 'neath the snow.

    Thou leavest the flower-fledgelings of the Spring,
    For on thy loving listening, from the nest
    Break birdling-blossoms low, sweet chirruping
    And fluttering of wings beneath thy breast.

    With eager, thirsty little lips aparch
    For April rains, they flee thy sheltering;
    Dost joy or grieve, O mother-bird of March,
    To see thy nestling-violets all awing?

  19. March in the Mountains

    by Ada A. Mosher. This poem is about Mt. St. Joseph's, Emmitsburg.

    Hark, how in impotent rage old Euroclydon
    Scourges the bare-shouldered mountains to-night!
    While their low laughter doth answer to mock theone
    Wielding the lash that the lash is so light.

    Laugh they as laughed in his slumber old Ymir,
    When the great Norse giant's ponderous mace
    Smote his bare forehead, low muttered the dreamer,
    "Breezes must blow, I feel leaves on my face."

    So these grim giants that, hoary and battle-proof,
    Guard this old pass, spurn Euroclydon's guage;
    Laugh him to scorn while his anger doth but behoof
    Sport for these warriors who mock at his rage.

    Loose are his storm-steeds; the snap of his lariat
    Maddens to fury the pulse of their speed;
    Down the deep gorges on thunders his chariot
    Hot in pursuit of each mane-tossing steed.

  20. March and April

    by Annette Wynne

    Stay in, stay in, O flowers, stay in,
    Spring can't begin, it can't begin!
    For wild rough March rides all about,
    Don't put your little noses out;
    Small heads should keep safe under ground,
    Or March will catch you riding round.

    Come out, come out, O flowers, come out!
    Wild March is gone with rush and shout,
    And April's eager now to play,
    Come out, for March rode far away,
    And Spring is dancing all around!
    Come up, dear seeds, above the ground!

  21. The March Wind Comes

    by Annette Wynne

    The March wind comes with mighty sound,
    The trees bend over to the ground;
    "O hold us tight, Dear Ground," they cry;
    "The wild March wind is riding by."

    "Bend near, bend near, Tree-Children Dear,
    But never let the March wind hear,
    O, I shall hold you firm and fast,
    And soon the bold wind will ride past."

  22. The Winds of March

    by Annette Wynne

    The winds of March are wild and strong,
    They howl and whistle all day long;
    They pull the hats from tall men's heads
    And frighten children in their beds.

    They brush the trees, they sweep the ground,
    I'm glad no seedlings can be found,
    For March would hurt each leaf and stem—
    But April-time was made for them!

  23. End of March

    by Annette Wynne

    What does the white world know
    Of flowers eager to grow
    Under the snow?
    Do the brown limbs care
    As they swing in the crisp clear air?

    But O, little seed, you know,
    Lying patiently so—
    Head underground,
    Only wait—the call will go round,
    You'll know the sound.
    And O, the snow must go,
    For you, little seed, are waiting to grow!

    O, the joy to lift the head
    Straight above the dark brown bed,
    O, the joy to feel the tread
    Of spring with skipping bare brave feet,
    Down the warm, wet village street.

    Ah, then the brown branches care
    And try to touch her hair;
    Streaming out in the new warm air,
    And O, the sky is glad, and every brook and glen
    For then,
    The world begins all over again!

  24. March

    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

    Like some reformer, who with mien austere,
    Neglected dress, and loud insistent tones,
    More rasping than the wrongs which she bemoans,
    Walks through the land and wearies all who hear,
    While yet we know the need of such reform;
    So comes unlovely March, with wind and storm,
    To break the spell of winter, and set free
    The poisoned brooks and crocus beds oppressed.
    Severe of face, gaunt-armed, and wildly dressed,
    She is not fair nor beautiful to see.
    But merry April and sweet smiling May
    Come not till March has first prepared the way.

  25. March

    by Julia Ellen Jenkins

    Old March is here with us again,
    And all are shivering; even the men
    Complain of the wind so sharp and chill;
    As it comes to greet us from yonder hill.

    But the sun shines bright and the sky is clear
    And as March must visit us once a year
    We gladly welcome it, for we know
    That it helps to lessen the drifts of snow.
    There are patches now of bare ground to be seen,
    And now and then bunches of grass that are green,
    And we earnestly listen each sunny morn
    For the noisy crow which Ave hear at dawn.
    Yes, winter is passing with smiles so arch,
    And now we have windy and chilly March.
    But despite the winds that are loud and drear,
    The beauties of Spring now begin to appear;
    And soon we'll enjoy the season gay,
    With its beautiful flowery month of May;
    So blow old March, while your powers last,
    Soon April and May will your glory blast.

  26. March Morning

    by Edna Mead

    A pale sun glints across the swirling drifts,
    Bent trees are crackling with a silver load,
    A wild gale shrieks in mischief as it lifts
    A stinging screen of flakes across the road.

    It seems midwinter still, and still the world
    Lies wrapped in sleep upon the year's high shelf,
    But March is such a rogue, his challenge hurled
    In fury cannot hide his other self.

    A softer azure tints the sky's cold blue,
    Sometimes, for moments, all the wind is quiet,
    Ice jewels melt to tears the rendezvous
    Of ruffled sparrows teems with April riot.

    Still roars the lion, but the lamb is bolder,
    The madness has a subtle touch of play,
    The night was Winter, but the Spring grown older,
    Knows what a sham of Winter is today.

  27. An April Jest

    by Ruby Archer

    On a rough March day with a sky half gray,
    The wind with the sunshine plead:
    "Come with me and creep where the blossoms sleep,
    And waken them all," he said.

    And the sun laughed, "Yea." So they sped away,
    All the night-capped flowers to find;
    And they touched the heads in the deep soft beds
    With a delicate leaf-mould lined,

    'Till the flow'rets dreamed that a rainbow gleamed,
    And a murmuring zephyr sang;
    And their night-caps soft in a trice they doffed,
    And lo—from their beds up sprang.

    As each wee sprout flung its fingers out
    And soft pushed the earth away,
    Wily wind and sun in their impish fun
    Made the March world laugh like May.

    When the flower heads fair felt the silk-soft air,
    They nodded in artless glee;
    And each conceived as it happily leaved,
    It was strong as a plant need be.

    Nor with wind and sun were the favors done.
    They cradled and kissed the flowers,
    While March crept past, in caprice at last,
    With crotchets and petulant showers.

    When March had departed, the wind icy-hearted
    Blew fiercely the poor plants around;
    'Till frightened they quivered, and fearfully shivered,
    And laid their sweet heads on the ground.

    The sunshine grew naughty, and feigned to be haughty
    By hooding himself with a cloud:
    The darkness came quickly, the clouds gathered thickly,
    And every bright leaflet was cowed.

    Then a white despair clutched the gasping air,
    And the plants lay prone in their woe;
    For the awful white meant the fatal blight
    In the touch of the pitiless snow.

    Then the sunshine peered from his hood and jeered,
    "'Twas a jest! Silly plants! April fool!"
    And the wind shrieked past in a cutting blast,
    "April fool! April fool! April fool!"

  28. March Sunset

    by Hilda Conklings

    Pines cut dark on a bronze sky . . .
    A juniper tree laughing to the harp of the wind . . .
    Last year's oak leaves rustling . . .
    And oh, the sky like a heart of fire
    Burned down to those coals that have the color of fruit . . .
    Cherries . . . light red grapes . . .

  29. March Metaphors

    by Ruby Archer

    The flag of March is wide outflung,—
    A banner all of ice;
    But while the dazzling folds are swung
    Where Boreas' winds entice,
    I watch the ripples gliding.
    I look where erst the snowflake clung,
    And lo!—the banner in a trice
    Unfolds prophetic a device—
    Blue violets in hiding!

    * * * * *

    The Earth awakes, puts off her snowy cover,
    Still idly dreaming of the Sun,
    Not yet aware the presence of her lover
    Until a vagrant kiss is won.
    She swiftly turns, her snowy garment seeking,
    And finds it stolen by the Hours.
    Then in a flutter, all too shy for speaking,
    She veils her in a blush of flowers.

  30. Oh, Ye March Winds

    by Albina Brockway Letts

    Beat, beat 'gainst my window panes,
    Ye March winds, raw and chill!
    Drift, drift 'round my window and door,
    Ye March snows, as ye will!
    I smile at your bluster and wrath,
    I laugh at your sobbing pain;
    For spring follows close on your path,
    And short is your cruel reign.

    Drift, drift, O snowy white threads,
    Thick and fast, 'round temple and brow,
    Ye can never chill my life,
    Or give me one heart pang now;
    For ye only tell of the spring,
    The eternal youth of my years;
    Tell that time is on the wing,
    And the endless springtime nears.

  31. March

    by Douglas Malloch

    In what a travail is our Springtime born!—
    'Mid leaden skies and garmenture of gloom.
    Wild waves of cloud the drifting stars consume
    And shipless seas of heaven greet the morn.
    The forest trees stand sad and tempest-torn,
    Memorials of Summer's ended bloom;
    For unto March, the sister most forlorn,
    No roses come her pathway to illume.
    Yet 'tis the month the Winter northward flies
    With one last trumpeting of savage might.
    Now stirs the earth of green that underlies
    This other earth enwrapped in garb of white.
    And while poor March, grown weary, droops and dies
    The little Springtime opens wide its eyes.

  32. March Horses

    by Edith Franklin Wyatt

    Down the rainy roof-top, up the silver street,
    Horses of the morning wind gallop far and fleet.
    Over mist and tree-top, down the break of day.
    Coursers of the cold-breathed wind swing me on your way.

    Light you whinnied at the gabling, and afar I'd dreamed your stabling—
    Heard you stamping in your stabling on the heaven's crystal floor,
    Dreamed your waiting in the airy days of ice-locked January,
    Through clear nights in February, past the pole-star lantern's door.

    Gallop past the hoary Hyads, and the snowy-clustered Pleiads,
    Over common, over open, over mud-flung road and plain,
    Cloud-winged horses with your streaming manes and dappled fetlocks gleaming
    Beautiful beyond my dreaming, down your yearly course again.

    Over highway, over byway, every way of yours is my way,
    Fog-smoked roof, and dripping alley, and the trail the wild duck cries,
    Ragged mist and splashing byway, plashing eaves, and flooded highway,
    Broken shore and full-flushed valley, and the hundred-hurdled skies.

    Gallop, gallop swifter to me, thrill the strength of daybreak through me,
    Twelve great winds of open heaven, in your splendor fleet and free,
    Winds above all pride and scorning, all self-shame and self-adorning
    As the naked stars of morning singing through the bare-branched tree.

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