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The Garden by Joan Miro
Saying a fond farewell to March, whose drumbeat brought us an early and delightful spring.

March
Lucy Larcom

"March! March! March! They are coming
In troops to the tune of the wind. 
Redheaded woodpeckers drumming,
Gold - crested thrushes behind;

Sparrows in brown jackets, hopping
Past every gateway and door;
Finches, with crimson caps, stopping
Just where they stopped before.

March! March! March! They are slipping
Into their places at last. . . 
Literature white lily buds, dripping
Under the showers that fall fast;

Buttercups, violets, roses;
Snowdrop and bluebell and pink,
Throng upon throng of sweet posies
Bending the dewdrops to drink.

March! March!  March! They will hurry
Forth at the wild bugle sound,
Blossoms and birds  in a flurry,
Fluttering all over the ground.

Shake out your flags, birch  and willow!
Shake out your red tassels, larch!
Grass blades, up from  your earth - pillow.
Hear who is calling you. . . March." 



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