Wan February with weeping cheer,
Whose cold hand guides the youngling year
⁠Down misty roads of mire and rime,
Before thy pale and fitful face
The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace
⁠Through skies the morning scarce may climb.
Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears,
But lit with hopes that light the year's.

Hail, happy March, whose foot on earth
Rings as the blast of martial mirth
⁠When trumpets fire men's hearts for fray.
No race of wild things winged or finned
May match the might that wings thy wind
⁠Through air and sea, through scud and spray.
Strong joy and thou were powers twin-born
Of tempest and the towering morn.