March Poem by Ina D. Coolbrith

Hark, from the budding boughs that burst of song!
And where the leagues of emerald stretch away,
How rings the meadow-lark’s ecstatic lay
And all the hills the liquid notes prolong.
The stately callas shine, a saintly throng.
From their broad leaves; and in her queenly sway,
The royal rose unfolds unto the day.
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
Beat on the blossomed plain, the forest-path,
And the vast ocean smite to seething foam!