Such bronchial bothers, such blossomy noses, such frostbitten fingers for man and for maid!
The sea was not lovelier then than the land, each appeared in a dismal and desolate plight;
But the Winter is not so much worse than the Spring-time; each plays up the mischief with pleasure and trade.
March, master of winds, is a flatulent fraud, a marshal of banes and a bringer of blight.
And now that the rage of your rhythmical rapture, your revel of rhyming has finished its flow,
Oh, incontinent Algernon Charles, what the dickens you mean by such rubbish I should like to know.
How, how can you love and rejoice, you, leader and lord of the lyrists of curses and scorn,
In a beast of a month that half drives one to madness, and makes a man wish he had never been born?
Have you shaken the snow from your shoes on a doormat, with frost have your nose and your lips been aglow?
Have you met a March wind coming sharp round a corner, your mackintosh drenched and your gingham all torn,