On the first of March
The crows begin to search,
By the first of April
They are sitting still,
By the first of May
They are a' flown away;
Croupin' greedy back again,
Wi' October's wind and rain.
He who freely lops in March will get his lap full of fruit.
Portuguese saying.
Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,
Warlike March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath.
Through all the moaning chimneys, and 'thwart all the hollows and angles,
Round the shuddering house, breathing of winter and death.