March

March! March! March! They are coming

In troops to the tune of the wind:

Red-headed woodpeckers drumming,

Gold-crested thrushes behind;

Sparrows in brown jackets hopping

Past every gateway and door;

Finches with crimson caps stopping

Just where they stopped years before.

March! March! March! They will hurry

Forth at the wild bugle-sound;

Blossoms and birds in a flurry,

Fluttering all over the ground.

Hang out your flags, birch and willow!

Shake out your red tassels, larch!

Up, blades of grass, from your pillow!

Hear who is calling you—March!