The lion wind comes rushing in
From jungle lands of sky,
And all the lamps along the street
He fairly blinds with snow and sleet
The bold March wind, the cold March wind,
Who makes the tree-tops fly.
He stole a pillow from a line
And rolled it, all the way,
From Perkins Street to Market Square
With giant paws at play;
The queer March wind, the drear March wind,
Who takes my breath away.
The other night, at dinner-time,
When cook went to the door,
To get the frozen pudding in
’Twas spilled upon the floor!
The gruff March wind, the rough March wind,
Had played the trick, she swore.
But just last night, when all was dark,
I raised the window wide,
To fasten in a flapping cord,
That kept the curtain tied;
The great March wind rushed through the room;
“I promise Spring!” he cried.
