March

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.