O FICKLE and uncertain March, How could you have the heart, To make the tender crocuses From their beds untimely start? Those foolish, unsuspecting flowers, Too credulous to see That the sweetest promises of March Are not May's certainty. When you smiled a few short hours ago, What said your whisper, light, That made them lift their pretty heads So hopeful and so bright? I could not catch a single word, But I saw your light caress; And heard your rough voice softened down To a lover's tenderness. O cruel and perfidious month, It makes me sick and sad, To think how yesterday your smile Made all the blossoms glad! O trustful, unsuspecting flowers, It breaks my heart to know, That all your golden heads to-day Are underneath the snow! |