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March
The footfall of March comes whistling by,
Wrapped in the hope that winter will die;
But the winds of winter still coldly blow,
Bringing the harvest of leftover snow.
The birds from south wing their way home,
From faraway places where feathered wings roam;
Pregnant with the breathless feelings that bring,
Promises of hope in the womb of Spring.
The bright days of Eden are almost here,
Blossoms that are sleeping will soon appear;
But only the snowdrop lifts her brave little head,
From a cold dank earth and lonely bed.
But the skies of grey are turning blue,
And the days grow longer and storms are few;
Earth has joys to bring in her arms,
As the birth of Spring brings in all of her charms.
Copyright ©
Elizabeth Wesley
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