MARCH 6 1 



and of many and many a writer whose pages 

 have been lightened by the charming gaiety 

 of its virginal innocence. Among all the 

 books that be there is one lacking, and that 

 is one in which all that has been said and 

 painted and sung of this flower may be 

 gathered into a volume for its lovers. I 

 wonder if there would be room in it for such 

 lines as these 



The March winds blow, now high, now low, 

 The changeful shadows come and go, 

 The old Earth stirs in her sleep and wakes, 

 On greening fields her glad smile breaks: 



And into the ear of the waking year 

 Faint, fairy music is ringing clear : 

 Blown from the golden trumpets fair 

 The daffodils lift high in air. 



Alert, arrayed for dress parade. 

 Comes marching now the bright brigade 

 Triumphant, proud, not one to spare 

 However many may be there. 



Of the tint of skies where daylight dies ; 

 Of the faint, sweet scent of Paradise ; 

 Cool, up-springing 'mid pale-green leaves, 

 What is this spell that the March air weaves ? 



Over the wold, whence frost and cold 

 Have gone from the damp, life-giving mould. 

 Can you not hear when winds are still, 

 The gay fanfare of the daffodil ? 



