March, thou bully grim and gruff,

Ever grumbling, hoarse, and rough!

Always howling at the door

Of the rich man or the poor;

Screaming words that do not reach—

Words unlike our human speech.

Down the hollow chimney-bore,

Hark the raging tyrant’s roar!

Beat not with thy sleety flail,

Or the keen lash of thy hail,

Infant Spring, that tender child,

Frightened when thou even smiled.

Cruel March, Sir!

—Walter Thornbury.