The Wind Of March

Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing     Under the sky's gray arch;     Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing     It is the wind of March.     Between the passing and the coming season,     This stormy interlude     Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason     For trustful gratitude.     Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning     Of light and warmth to come,     The longed-for joy of Nature's Easter morning,     The earth arisen in bloom.     In the loud tumult winter's strength is breaking;     I listen to the sound,     As to a voice of resurrection, waking     To life the dead, cold ground.     Between these gusts, to the soft lapse I hearken     Of rivulets on their way;     I see these tossed and naked tree-tops darken     With the fresh leaves of May.     This roar of storm, this sky so gray and lowering     Invite the airs of Spring,     A warmer sunshine over fields of flowering,     The bluebird's song and wing.     Closely behind, the Gulf's warm breezes follow     This northern hurricane,     And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallow     Shall visit us again.     And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pasture     And by the whispering rills,     Shall flowers repeat the lesson of the Master,     Taught on his Syrian hills.     Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing,     Thy chill in blossoming;     Come, like Bethesda's troubling angel, bringing     The healing of the Spring