  The winds of March are trumpeters, They blow with might and main, And herald to the waiting earth The Spring and all her train. They harbinger the April showers, With sunny smiles between, That wake the blossoms in their beds, And make the meadows green. The South will send her spicy breath, The brook in music flow, The orchard don a bloomy robe Of May's unmelting snow. Then June will stretch her golden days, Like harp-strings, bright and long, And play a rich accompaniment To every wild bird's song. The fair midsummer time, apace, Shall bring us many a boon, And ripened fruits, and yellow sheaves Beneath the harvest-moon. The golden-rod, a Grecian torch, Will light the splendid scene, When Autumn comes in all the pomp And glory of a queen. Her crimson sign shall flash and shine On every wooded hill, And Plenty's horn unto the brim Her lavish bounty fill. —Andrew Downing. |
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