Madison Julius Cawein
   This is the tomboy month of all the year,
  March, who comes shouting o'er the winter hills,
  Waking the world with laughter, as she wills,
  Or wild halloos, a windflower in her ear.
  She stops a moment by the half-thawed mere
  And whistles to the wind, and straightway shrills
  The hyla's song, and hoods of daffodils
  Crowd golden round her, leaning their heads to hear.
  Then through the woods, that drip with all their eaves,
  Her mad hair blown about her, loud she goes
  Singing and calling to the naked trees;
  And straight the oilets of the little leaves
  Open their eyes in wonder, rows on rows,
  And the first bluebird bugles to the breeze.