They say that the little March hare is mad, as mad as a beast can be,
And yet when I saw him, the other day, he seemed very calm to me;
For close by the fence in the pasture lot, where the grass grew brown and dry,
He was nibbling a bit, in a gentle way, with a sad bright tear in his eye.
“I wish they would call me The Rabbit of Spring—The Rabbit of Peace,” he said,
“I think it a shame to be known as mad, when I’m quite all right in my head.
What rageful beast, to say the least, on a meal of weeds would dine?
And how could I ever growl or lash, with a voice and a tail like mine?”