I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art welcome month to me.
For thou, to Northern lands again,
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train
And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.