MARCH. 
^HE daffodils begin to peer, 
With heigh ! the doxy over the dale. 
Why then comes in the sweet o’ the year; 
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. 
Shakespeare. 
To me at this fair season still hath been 
In every tvild flower an exhaustless treasure, 
And, when the young-eyed violet first was seen 
Melhought to breathe was pleasure. 
Lord Lytton. 
The roaring moon 
Of daffodil and crocus. 
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch. 
And rarefy pipes the mounted thrush, 
Or underneath the barren bush 
Flits by the sea-blue bird of March. 
Tennyson. 
