In March the world was bare,1
Beneath the changeful sky ;2
It lies adorned and fair,3
Wrapped soft in sunny air,4
With flowers everywhere,5
Now in July.6
But in bleak March, unchilled,7
The thrushes warbled high,8
And all the woods were filled9
With songs the blackbirds trilled—10
The sweet bird-notes are stilled11
Now in July.12
In March the cold rain fell,13
But little heeded I,14
For I was loved so well.15
Love, have we lost the spell ?16
Is no such tale to tell,17
Now in July ?18