March. By The Pacific Poem by Ina D. Coolbrith

Hark, from the budding boughs that burst of song!
And where the leagues of emerald stretch away,
Out rings the meadow-lark’s ecstatic lay,
While the green hills the liquid notes prolong.
The slender callas shine, a saintly throng,
From their broad leaves; and her slim stem upon,
The royal rose unfolds her to the sun.
O gentle March! O turbulent and strong!
The dove, the tiger, in thy changeful mood.
For while the larks sing, and the linnets brood,
Lo! sullen storm-clouds sweep the smiling dome;
And roar of winds; and the mad tempest-wrath
Beats on the blossomed plain, the forest path,
And the vast ocean smites to seething foam.