khamush.com Lifestyle | Motivation | Poems
March is a month of transition, as winter slowly gives way to spring.
March poems remind us of the promise of the season ahead, of new beginnings, and of the transformative power of nature.
From funny to famous, short to long, and for children to adults, these poems offer a unique perspective on the many facets of March.
Whether we’re inspired to embrace the winds of change, find hope in the changing weather, or simply enjoy a laugh, these poems about March help us to appreciate the beauty and wonder of the world around us.
You May Also Be Interested In:
Funny March Poems
Add some laughter to your day with interesting poems about March that play on the quirks and fun of this transitional month.
1. The Ides of March Versus October
by John Lofquist
The Ides of March
are no different than of October
just seven months older
and perhaps, a little bit colder.
And had Caesar only stayed away
from the Curia of Pompey
that day
he might have lived, perhaps, a little bit longer.
2. March of The Footle – Loving Food
by Rainbow Promise
People Chubby
Short and Stubby.
Hearty Eaters
Egg Beaters.
Gaining Weight
Without Faith.
Filling Stomachs
Lying in Hammocks.
What a Folly
O how Jolly.
Loving Food
Always in the Mood.
3. Wrathful March Disappoints Everyone
by Andrew Crisci
I expected a day of sunshine,
sit outside and sip some wine;
February gave us some warm days,
we thought spring wouldn’t have come for a while…
the bakery below has the scent of bread that delights,
the laundry next door smells like waving clothes on lines!
Wrathful March disappoints everyone, it’s a month so insane;
the saddened kids wanted tons of fluffy snow, not rain or hail;
the snowman’s nose would have had a carrot dropped by a quail,
two big blueberries for his small eyes soon to be eaten by ravens,
two small slices of red watermelon for his frozen and pinkish lips…
hooray! they’d have been ready to pull him down the steep lane!
4. March of The Footle – This Old Rhyme
by Rainbow Promise
Old Billy
Was a silly.
Owned a knife
He had a wife.
Went hunting
For Bunny Buntin.
Who ate carrots
And talking parrots.
His wife got to cooking
As he started hooking
Many big fish
For a silvery dish!
5. March 9th 2014
by Tom Wright
Soon time’s change will be calling,
Its spring forward then fall back.
Shades of night are slowly falling,
Makes my head go clickty clack.
We work and save until we retire,
Thinking we’ll enjoy a life of ease.
Only to find we’re about to expire,
And Daylight Saving Time’s a tease.
None of this seems to make sense,
I’ve never seen this time we save.
At least so far I’m not past tense,
Its sunup till set, until the grave.
6. I Be a Leprechaun
by Cynthia Jones
Though I be short
not so very tall,
damn those that laugh
make fun, ’cause I be small.
I be hoppin’ through the shamrocks
me knickers ride up me bum,
they giggle and laugh their heads off
treat me like I were dumb.
I be a leprechaun
I be so proud of that,
nice ta say, “Top o’ the mornin’ ta ya,”
and kindly tip me hat.
I be a leprechaun
stuck ta it like glue,
keepin’ me po’ o’ gold safe
from people just like you.
7. Equinox Talks
by Chaim Wilson
Equinox Talks
As Spring Knocks,
In March Hypnosis,
Wearing Orange Socks,
Show of Toetal Happiness,
Tweet, Sweet Robin Chirp Rocks,
Twolip, Tulip Crocus Finesse,
Break Out of Winter’s Box,
Sights of Blossoms Caress,
Spring Sprung, No Hoax,
In Purim Costumes Dress,
Fine Weather Un-Cloaked,
Smiles Access, No More Ice Stress!
8. March of the Taunting Tercets
by Njv Tomcatx
Sitting on a global seesaw
Play a universal keyboard
Show (don’t TELL) discordant sounds
Kneel to Ultimate Disruption
Flood the zone with zoonosis
We’ve got your mess uncovered
O the weaponized muse!
Wait for humanity to make an appearance
March through grumpy gamma rays
Forget a nuclear shootout
Promote a Swan Lake retirement
A soft landing in a noisy scenario
Music lives to fight another day
Stop the iconoclastic idiocrats
Victory of non-panaceas
Jumping off the global precipice
Clean up your mutating mess
I’ve got my posterior covered
9. It’s March
by Darlene Gifford
It’s March,
and my nose knows.
It’s March,
and the pollen blows.
And as I sniffle,
sneeze, and kaChoooo,
My Lord knows
exactly what to do.
He hands me a tissue,
and says, “God bless you!”
Famous March Poems
Experience the famous poems about March by some of the most renowned poets in history, who have immortalized the beauty of March in their verses.
1. Written in March
by William Wordsworth
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon:
There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
2. To My Sister
by William Wordsworth
IT is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister! (’tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;–and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We’ll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
–It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We’ll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We’ll give to idleness.
3. 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 . . .
4. March Metaphors
by Ruby Archer
The flag of March is wide outflung, in
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! in the banner in a trice
Unfolds prophetic a device in
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.
5. 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.
6. March
by Douglas Malloch
In what a travail is our Springtime born! in
‘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.
7. 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 in
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 in
March, March, March away!
Inspirational March Poems
Get inspired to face the changing seasons with inspirational poems about March that inspire courage, resilience, and hope.
1. Dear March in Come in
by Emily Dickinson
Dear March in Come in
How glad I am
I hoped for you before
Put down your Hat in
You must have walked in
How out of Breath you are in
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest in
Did you leave Nature well in
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me in
I have so much to tell in
I got your Letter, and the Birds in
The Maples never knew that you were coming in
I declare – how Red their Faces grew in
But March, forgive me in
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue in
There was no Purple suitable in
You took it all with you in
Who knocks? That April in
Lock the Door in
I will not be pursued in
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied in
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 in
2. March: An Ode
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
I
Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendour of winter had passed out of sight,
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that fulfil us in sleep with delight;
The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and branches that glittered and swayed
Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow or of frost that outlightens all flowers till it fade
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night,
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the madness and might in thee made,
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite.
II
And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel and ravin and spoil of the snow,
And the branches it brightened are broken, and shattered the tree-tops that only thy wrath could lay low,
How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of the year that exults to be born
So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whose laughter puts winter and sorrow to scorn?
Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thy forehead is molten: thy lips are aglow
As a lover’s that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her raiment and tresses yet wasted and torn,
Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel through her spirit the sense of thee flow.
III
Fain, fain would we see but again for an hour what the wind and the sun have dispelled and consumed,
Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with whose luminous burden the branches implumed
Hung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and fledged not as birds are, but petalled as flowers,
Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled and carved, or a fountain that shines as it showers,
But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought not to last till by time or by tempest entombed,
As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men: for the date of its doom is no more than an hour’s,
One hour of the sun’s when the warm wind wakes him to wither the snow-flowers that froze as they bloomed.
IV
As the sunshine quenches the snowshine; as April subdues thee, and yields up his kingdom to May;
So time overcomes the regret that is born of delight as it passes in passion away,
And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in or mourn for with tears or thanksgivings; but thou,
Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and gladdest of months, to what goal hast thou gone from us now?
For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter that lightens, the beat of thy wings that play,
Must flame as a fire through the world, and the heavens that we know not rejoice in thee: surely thy brow
Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit the joy that impelled it on quest as for prey.
V
Are thy feet on the ways of the limitless waters, thy wings on the winds of the waste north sea?
Are the fires of the false north dawn over heavens where summer is stormful and strong like thee
Now bright in the sight of thine eyes? are the bastions of icebergs assailed by the blast of thy breath?
Is it March with the wild north world when April is waning? the word that the changed year saith,
Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion reiterate from spirits triumphant as we
Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy clarions as men’s rearisen from a sleep that was death
And kindled to life that was one with the world’s and with thine? hast thou set not the whole world free?
VI
For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and freedom’s the sense of thy spirit, the sound of thy song,
Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is as high as the hands of thy kingdom are strong,
Thy kingdom whose empire is terror and joy, twin-featured and fruitful of births divine,
Days lit with the flame of the lamps of the flowers, and nights that are drunken with dew for wine,
And sleep not for joy of the stars that deepen and quicken, a denser and fierier throng,
And the world that thy breath bade whiten and tremble rejoices at heart as they strengthen and shine,
And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed her, and knows of thy reign that it wrought not wrong.
VII
Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not thy face in the crown of the steep sky’s arch,
And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, and witness arise of the thorn and the larch:
Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by the kiss of the wildest of winds that blow,
Calls loud on his brother for witness; his hands that were laden with blossom are sprinkled with snow,
And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and relent; and the live woods feel not the frost’s flame parch;
For the flame of the spring that consumes not but quickens is felt at the heart of the forest aglow,
And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were strewn from the hands of the gods of the winds of March.
3. Beeny Cliff
by Thomas Hardy
O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,
And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free –
The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.
The pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far away
In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,
As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-sunned March day.
A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain,
And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain,
And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.
– Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky,
And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh,
And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?
What if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore,
The woman now is – elsewhere – whom the ambling pony bore,
And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will laugh there nevermore.
4. March
by A.E. Housman
The Sun at noon to higher air,
Unharnessing the silver Pair
That late before his chariot swam,
Rides on the gold wool of the Ram.
So braver notes the storm-**** sings
To start the rusted wheel of things,
And brutes in field and brutes in pen
Leap that the world goes round again.
The boys are up the woods with day
To fetch the daffodils away,
And home at noonday from the hills
They bring no dearth of daffodils.
Afield for palms the girls repair,
And sure enough the palms are there,
And each will find by hedge or pond
Her waving silver-tufted wand.
In farm and field through all the shire
The eye beholds the heart’s desire;
Ah, let not only mine be vain,
For lovers should be loved again.
5. 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, in
“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; in
Set you free at last.”
6. March
by Mary B. C. Slade
The stormy March has come again, in
March! March! March!
And rattling down the window pane, in
March! March! March!
Come rushing torrents of the rain, in
March! March! March!
But o’er my head my hat I swing,
And shout hurrah! like anything!
Because it is the first of Spring, in
March! March! March!
Short March Poems
Sometimes less is more. Short and sweet, these short poetries about March pack a powerful punch in just a few lines.
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. Dreams
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
3. Frozen with Snow
by Langston Hughes
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
4. 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!”
5. 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.
6. Every One Knows March’s Way
by Annette Wynne
Everyone 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 in
All in a trice, before you know.
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, in
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 in
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.”
Long March Poems
For those who want to take a deep dive into the wonders of March, long poetries about March offer a detailed exploration of the many facets of the season.
1. The Shepherds Calendar – March
by John Clare
March month of ‘many weathers’ wildly comes
In hail and snow and rain and threatning hums
And floods: while often at his cottage door
The shepherd stands to hear the distant roar
Loosd from the rushing mills and river locks
Wi thundering sound and over powering shocks
And headlong hurry thro the meadow brigs
Brushing the leaning sallows fingering twigs
In feathery foam and eddy hissing chase
Rolling a storm oertaken travellers pace
From bank to bank along the meadow leas
Spreading and shining like to little seas
While in the pale sunlight a watery brood
Of swopping white birds flock about the flood
Yet winter seems half weary of its toil
And round the ploughman on the elting soil
Will thread a minutes sunshine wild and warm
Thro the raggd places of the swimming storm
And oft the shepherd in his path will spye
The little daisey in the wet grass lye
That to the peeping sun enlivens gay
Like Labour smiling on an holiday
And where the stunt bank fronts the southern sky
By lanes or brooks where sunbeams love to lye
A cowslip peep will open faintly coy
Soon seen and gatherd by a wandering boy
A tale of spring around the distant haze
Seems muttering pleasures wi the lengthening days
Morn wakens mottld oft wi may day stains
And shower drops hang the grassy sprouting plains
And on the naked thorns of brassy hue
Drip glistning like a summer dream of dew
While from the hill side freshing forest drops
As one might walk upon their thickening tops
And buds wi young hopes promise seemly swells
Where woodman that in wild seclusion dwells
Wi chopping toil the coming spring decieves
Of many dancing shadows flowers and leaves
And in his pathway down the mossy wood
Crushes wi hasty feet full many a bud
Of early primrose yet if timely spied
Shelterd some old half rotten stump beside
The sight will cheer his solitery hour
And urge his feet to stride and save the flower
Muffld in baffles leathern coat and gloves
The hedger toils oft scaring rustling doves
From out the hedgrows who in hunger browze
The chockolate berrys on the ivy boughs
And flocking field fares speckld like the thrush
Picking the red awe from the sweeing bush
That come and go on winters chilling wing
And seem to share no sympathy wi spring
The stooping ditcher in the water stands
Letting the furrowd lakes from off the lands
Or splashing cleans the pasture brooks of mud
Where many a wild weed freshens into bud
And sprouting from the bottom purply green
The water cresses neath the wave is seen
Which the old woman gladly drags to land
Wi reaching long rake in her tottering hand
The ploughman mawls along the doughy sloughs
And often stop their songs to clean their ploughs
From teazing twitch that in the spongy soil
Clings round the colter terryfying toil
The sower striding oer his dirty way
Sinks anckle deep in pudgy sloughs and clay
And oer his heavy hopper stoutly leans
Strewing wi swinging arms the pattering beans
Which soon as aprils milder weather gleams
Will shoot up green between the furroed seams
The driving boy glad when his steps can trace
The swelling edding as a resting place
Slings from his clotted shoes the dirt around
And feign woud rest him on the solid ground
And sings when he can meet the parting green
Of rushy balks that bend the lands between
While close behind em struts the nauntling crow
And daws whose heads seem powderd oer wi snow
To seek the worms-and rooks a noisey guest
That on the wind rockd elms prepares her nest
On the fresh furrow often drops to pull
The twitching roots and gathering sticks and wool
Neath trees whose dead twigs litter to the wind
And gaps where stray sheep left their coats behind
While ground larks on a sweeing clump of rushes
Or on the top twigs of the oddling bushes
Chirp their ‘cree creeing’ note that sounds of spring
And sky larks meet the sun wi flittering wing
Soon as the morning opes its brightning eye
Large clouds of sturnels blacken thro the sky
From oizer holts about the rushy fen
And reedshaw borders by the river Nen
And wild geese regiments now agen repair
To the wet bosom of broad marshes there
In marching coloms and attention all
Listning and following their ringleaders call
The shepherd boy that hastens now and then
From hail and snow beneath his sheltering den
Of flags or file leavd sedges tyd in sheaves
Or stubble shocks oft as his eye percieves
Sun threads struck out wi momentery smiles
Wi fancy thoughts his lonliness beguiles
Thinking the struggling winter hourly bye
As down the edges of the distant sky
The hailstorm sweeps-and while he stops to strip
The stooping hedgbriar of its lingering hip
He hears the wild geese gabble oer his head
And pleasd wi fancys in his musings bred
He marks the figurd forms in which they flye
And pausing follows wi a wandering eye
Likening their curious march in curves or rows
To every letter which his memory knows
While far above the solitary crane
Swings lonly to unfrozen dykes again
Cranking a jarring mellancholy cry
Thro the wild journey of the cheerless sky
Full oft at early seasons mild and fair
March bids farewell wi garlands in her hair
Of hazzel tassles woodbines hairy sprout
And sloe and wild plumb blossoms peeping out
In thickset knotts of flowers preparing gay
For aprils reign a mockery of may
That soon will glisten on the earnest eye
Like snow white cloaths hung in the sun to drye
The old dame often stills her burring wheel
When the bright sun will thro the window steal
And gleam upon her face and dancing fall
In diamond shadows on the picturd wall
While the white butterflye as in amaze
Will settle on the glossy glass to gaze
And oddling bee oft patting passing bye
As if they care to tell her spring was nigh
And smiling glad to see such things once more
Up she will get and potter to the door
And look upon the trees beneath the eves
Sweet briar and ladslove swelling into leaves
And damsin trees thick notting into bloom
And goosberry blossoms on the bushes come
And stooping down oft views her garden beds
To see the spring flowers pricking out their heads
And from her apron strings she’ll often pull
Her sissars out an early bunch to cull
For flower pots on the window board to stand
Where the old hour glass spins its thread of sand
And maids will often mark wi laughing eye
In elder where they hang their cloaths to drye
The sharp eyd robin hop from grain to grain
Singing its little summer notes again
As a sweet pledge of Spring the little lambs
Bleat in the varied weather round their dams
Or hugh molehill or roman mound behind
Like spots of snow lye shelterd from the wind
While the old yoes bold wi paternal cares
Looses their fears and every danger dares
Who if the shepherds dog but turns his eye
And stops behind a moment passing bye
Will stamp draw back and then their threats repeat
Urging defiance wi their stamping feet
And stung wi cares hopes cannot recconsile
They stamp and follow till he leaps a stile
Or skulking from their threats betakes to flight
And wi the master lessens out of sight
Clowns mark the threatning rage of march pass bye
And clouds wear thin and ragged in the sky
While wi less sudden and more lasting smiles
The growing sun their hopes of spring beguiles
Who often at its end remark wi pride
Days lengthen in their visits a ‘cocks stride’
Dames clean their candlesticks and set them bye
Glad of the makeshift light that eves supply
The boy returning home at night from toil
Down lane and close oer footbrig gate and style1
Oft trembles into fear and stands to hark
The waking fox renew his short gruff bark
While badgers eccho their dread evening shrieks
And to his thrilling thoughts in terror speaks
And shepherds that wi in their hulks remain
Night after night upon the chilly plain
To watch the dropping lambs that at all hours
Come in the quaking blast like early flowers
Demanding all the shepherds care who find
Warm hedge side spots and take them from the wind
And round their necks in wary caution tyes
Long shreds of rags in red or purple dyes
That’s meant in danger as a safty spell.
2. A March Glee
by John Burroughs
I hear the wild geese honking
From out the misty night, in
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.
3. 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 in
Your poems of stanzas ten in
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.
4. March
by Hattie Howard
March, thou month of varied weather!
Mild and frigid joined together in
“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 in
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 in if we but wait.
5. The Passing of March
by Ada A. Mosher
O stern, but kindly-faced, we call thee rough in
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?
6. March in the Mountains
by Ada A. Mosher
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.
7. 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 in
Head underground,
Only wait in 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!
8. 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.
9. 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.
10. 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 in 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!”
March Poems That Rhyme
Add a musical quality to your poetry with poems about March with rhyming words that are easy to remember and fun to recite.
1. March Comes in Like a Lion
by Lisa
March brings breezes loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.
March comes in like a lion
And goes out like a lamb.
Sometimes it’s reversed…
March comes in like a lamb
And goes out like a lion.
A March sun sticks
Like a lock of wool.
There’s an old belief that if March is dry and dusty, there will be a better crop…
A bushel of March dust is worth a King’s ransom.
A fair March is worth a king’s ransom.
A dry March and a wet May
Fill barns and bays with corn and hay.
A peck of March dust and a shower in May
Makes the corn green and the fields gay.
March water is worse
Than a stain in cloath*.
*That seems to be an obsolete spelling of cloth.
Here are happy ones to consider when you’re stuck inside because of the coming Spring rain…
March winds and April showers
Bring forth May flowers.
And…
In beginning or in end
March its gifts will send.
Be joyful, it’s almost Spring!
2. Winds of March
by Anonymous
Winds of March, we
welcome you,
There is work for you to do.
Work and play and blow all day,
Blow the winter cold away.
Winds of March
3. Song in March
by William Gilmore Simms
NOW are the winds about us in their glee,
Tossing the slender tree;
Whirling the sands about his furious car,
March cometh from afar;
Breaks the sealed magic of old Winter-s dreams,
And rends his glassy streams;
Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes
Their fetters from the lakes,
And, with a power by queenly Spring supplied,
Wakens the slumbering tide.
With a wild love he seeks young Summer-s charms
And clasps her to his arms;
Lifting his shield between, he drives away
Old Winter from his prey;-
The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves,
Goes howling to his caves;
And, to his northern realm compelled to fly,
Yields up the victory;
Melted are all his bands, o-erthrown his towers,
And March comes bringing flowers.
4. 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!
5. 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.”
6. 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 in
But April-time was made for them!
March Poems for Children
Introduce the wonder of March to young readers with March poems for kids,
which are both fun and educational, teaching them about the changing seasons and the beauty of nature.
1. March Wind
by Anonymous
The wind is pushing
Against the trees,
He’ll take off your hat
Without asking you “please,”
He rattles the windows
And puffs at a cloud,
Then scoots down the chimney
And laughs aloud.
2. March
by Anonymous
The March wind blows winter away
And sweeps the streets from day to day
March brings surprises, first the day’s hot
Then it starts snowing, likely as not
Hurry, March wind, hurry along
We like to hear you sing your song.
3. March
by Anonymous
Now when it’s March
It’s really spring
There’s a bright new look
On everything.
4. March
by Anonymous
When the rain is splashing down
On the fields and in the town
Singing winds begin to blow
And the flowers start to grow
How glad I am when I have seen
Those tender leaves of gentle green
They warm my heart and make it sing
For now I know at last it’s spring
Spring makes the world a happy place
You see a smile on every face
Flowers come out and birds arrive
Oh, isn’t it grand to be alive.
5. March Lamb or Lion
by Anonymous
When March comes in gently, with soft skies of blue
And warm happy breezes and crocus buds too
March begins like a lamb, sweet gentle and kind
But you’d better beware for you’ll surely find
That the end of the month will be stormy and cold
Like a lion it’ll roar, rough, growly and bold
If March begins windy, and stormy and gray,
If it’s too cold outside, to happily play
The lion’s here first, and he’s not so nice
You should be indoors take my advice
But wonderful weather is coming they say
By the end of the month the lamb’s here to stay.
6. March Winds and April Showers
by Anonymous
March winds and April showers
Popping up are pretty flowers
A kite flying in the sun
Aren’t you glad that spring’s begun!
7. March Winds Blow
by Anonymous
March winds blow with happy news
Spring is coming
March winds blow with happy news
Spring is coming
Hear them whisper, hear them sing
See the trees play
Hear them whisper, hear them sing
See the trees play.
March Poems about the Weather
Celebrate the unpredictable weather of March with poems about March weather that explore the beauty and power of rain, wind, and sunshine.
1. To March
by Emily Dickinson
Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat in
You must have walked in
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, in I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me in
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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. Never Mind, March
by Mama Lisa
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.
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.
March Poems about Spring
Explore the joys of spring, as March marks the beginning of a new season filled with hope, growth, and transformation with these poems about March and spring.
1. Spring
by Christina Rossetti
Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.
Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.
There is no time like Spring,
When life’s alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track –
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack, –
Before the daisy grows a common flower
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.
There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die,
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.
2. Spring
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
3. Today
by Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
From Aimless Love: New and Selected Poems by Billy Collins
4. Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: in
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
5. The Thrush
by Edward Thomas
When Winter’s ahead,
What can you read in November
That you read in April
When Winter’s dead?
I hear the thrush, and I see
Him alone at the end of the lane
Near the bare poplar’s tip,
Singing continuously.
Is it more that you know
Than that, even as in April,
So in November,
Winter is gone that must go?
Or is all your lore
Not to call November November,
And April April,
And Winter Winter in no more?
But I know the months all,
And their sweet names, April,
May and June and October,
As you call and call
I must remember
What died into April
And consider what will be born
Of a fair November;
And April I love for what
It was born of, and November
For what it will die in,
What they are and what they are not,
While you love what is kind,
What you can sing in
And love and forget in
All that’s ahead and behind.
6. Sonnet 98
by William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
7. Young Lambs
by John Clare
The spring is coming by a many signs;
The trays are up, the hedges broken down,
That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines
Like some old antique fragment weathered brown.
And where suns peep, in every sheltered place,
The little early buttercups unfold
A glittering star or two–till many trace
The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold.
And then a little lamb bolts up behind
The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe,
And then another, sheltered from the wind,
Lies all his length as dead–and lets me go
Close bye and never stirs but baking lies,
With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.
8. The Enkindled Spring
by D.H. Lawrence
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
9. Miracle on St David’s Day
by Gillian Clarke
An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.
I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coal as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic
on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes the woman is absent.
A big, mild man is tenderly led
to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer’s hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythms of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb labouring man as he rocks.
He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild, but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer’s voice recites ‘The Daffodils’.
The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.
Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech and that once he had something to say.
When he’s done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers’ silence. A thrush sings
and the daffodils are flame.
March Poems about Winds
Embrace the winds of change with March wind poems that celebrate the power and beauty of the wind, as it carries us forward into a new season.
1. The Winds of March
by Anonymous
March wind, wild wind, blow this day.
Whirl the winter snow away. Dry the
ditches and the hollows-in tracks where
April follows. Clear a path for her advance.
Teach the daffodils to dance. Through your
ravings harsh and strong-thrushes thread
a golden song. Cleanse the air, Make fresh
the earth-for the season of rebirth.
Wind of heaven, searching, keen. Sweep
the world and make it clean. Blow away the
old dissensions-grievances and bad inten-
tions. Godless dogmas, pagan creeds. Ugly
words and ugly deeds. Scatter them beneath
your wings. Blow away all evil things-So
that man from strife may cease-and enjoy
the fruits of peace.
2. The Message of The March Wind
by William Morris
Fair now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding
With the eyes of a lover, the face of the sun;
Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding
The green-growing acres with increase begun.
Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying
’Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field;
Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing
On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed.
From township to township, o’er down and by tillage
Fair, far have we wandered and long was the day;
But now cometh eve at the end of the village,
Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey.
There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us
The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about;
The moon’s rim is rising, a star glitters o’er us,
And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt.
Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over
The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea.
Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover;
This eve art thou given to gladness and me.
Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken:
Three fields further on, as they told me down there,
When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken
We might see from the hill-top the great city’s glare.
Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! from London it bloweth,
And telleth of gold, and of hope and unrest;
Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth,
But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best.
Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story
How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide;
And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory
Has been but a burden they scarce might abide.
Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling;
Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim,
That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling
My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim.
This land we have loved in our love and our leisure
For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach;
The wide hills o’er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure,
The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach.
The singers have sung and the builders have builded,
The painters have fashioned their tales of delight;
For what and for whom hath the world’s book been gilded,
When all is for these but the blackness of night?
How long, and for what is their patience abiding?
How oft and how oft shall their story be told,
While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding,
And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old?
Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire,
And the fiddler’s old tune and the shuffling of feet;
For there in a while shall be rest and desire,
And there shall the morrow’s uprising be sweet.
Yet, love, as we wend, the wind bloweth behind us,
And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night,
How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us;
For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light.
Like the seed of midwinter, unheeded, unperished,
Like the autumn-sown wheat ’neath the snow lying green,
Like the love that o’ertook us, unawares and uncherished,
Like the babe ’neath thy girdle that groweth unseen;
So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth,
Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear;
It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth;
It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear:
For it beareth the message: “Rise up on the morrow
And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife;
Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow,
And seek for men’s love in the short days of life.”
But lo, the old inn, and the lights, and the fire,
And the fiddler’s old tune and the shuffling of feet;
Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire,
And to-morrow’s uprising to deeds shall be sweet.
3. The Wind of March
by John Greenleaf Whittier
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky’s gray arch;
Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March.
Between the passing and the coming season,
This stormy interlude
Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason
For trustful gratitude.
Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning
Of light and warmth to come,
The longed-for joy of Nature’s Easter morning,
The earth arisen in bloom.
In the loud tumult winter’s strength is breaking;
I listen to the sound,
As to a voice of resurrection, waking
To life the dead, cold ground.
Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearken
Of rivulets on their way;
I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darken
With the fresh leaves of May.
This roar of storm, this sky so gray and lowering
Invite the airs of Spring,
A warmer sunshine over fields of flowering,
The bluebird’s song and wing.
Closely behind, the Gulf’s warm breezes follow
This northern hurricane,
And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallow
Shall visit us again.
And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pasture
And by the whispering rills,
Shall flowers repeat the lesson of the Master,
Taught on his Syrian hills.
Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing,
Thy chill in blossoming;
Come, like Bethesda’s troubling angel, bringing
The healing of the Spring.
4. The March Wind
by E. H. Henderson
The merry March wind is a boisterous fellow,
He tosses the trees; and the daffodils yellow
Dance and sway, as he blows by
To hurry the clouds across the sky.
He plays such pranks with the weather vane,
Turning it round, then back again.
But the game he enjoys the best of all,
Is blowing my bonnet right over a wall.
5. March Winds
by Terry Trainor
Spring is on the distant horizon, another month has gone, now just a memory
Seasons flow seamlessly, path’s of time seem faster, now in my golden years
The month of March is vigorous and piping, the month of new life in nature,
The coldness of our winter very gently fades, birds sing high in the trees,
But beware of gales as they rush through our woods, over meadows and glades.
The wild wrath of winter eases, March winds are fast, chasing the cold away,
Branches bend and groan, dead wood falls, ruining thatches and old buildings,
The wind bites but wild flowers spring from black soil in meadows and glades,
Measure the difference of the solemn fitfulness’s of autumn, and March winds
As People gingerly look out on mild days time to begin work in their gardens.
The last days of February sees the frost less severe, the slushy snow melting,
All in keeping with ancient character the month is wet from thaw and dampness,
A time for floods as snows melt, rain and sleet pours, this is our wet season,
There is movement in the woods, leas and the forests nature starts to wake up,
Now as sap is stirring in trees, buds begin to show green on bushes and boughs.
6. The March Wind
by Dolly Radford
The March wind rises through the skies,
His great wings rustling as he flies,
And downward sweeps o’er plain and hill
The sunshine to the daffodil.
The little songs which come and go,
In tender measures, to and fro,
Whene’er the day brings you to me,
Keep my heart full of melody.
But on my lute I strive in vain
To play the music o’er again,
And you, dear love, will never know
The little songs which come and go.
Final Thoughts
March poems offer a unique perspective on the transitional period between winter and spring.
They remind us of the beauty and power of nature, the promise of new beginnings, and the importance of resilience and hope.
Whether we are seeking inspiration, laughter, or a deeper appreciation for the changing seasons, these poems offer something for everyone.
From famous and inspirational to short and funny, the diversity of March’s poems allows us to explore the many facets of this fascinating month.
So take some time to enjoy the wonders of March and let these poems for March remind you of the promise of spring and the beauty of life.
