The stormy March has come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies…
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.
Missing springtime is like missing a woman. You never really noticed her and then she was gone, and all that she was returns and makes the separation even more painful.
I think I read this somewhere. “Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.”
The land of literature is a fairy land to those who view it at a distance, but, like all other landscapes, the charm fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briars become visible.
Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?