And mill-wheels turn with furious din
As the mill-stream rushes over the dam!
“O wintry March, will it never go!”
You cry, “and suffer sweet spring to win,
With fields for ploughing and seed to sow?”
Then how I laugh, for ’tis all a sham,
My blustering roar and lion’s skin ...
My practical joke, to take you in!
For, see! I’m the mildest month you know,
As I tiptoe off like a gentle lamb! [Exit March.]