Written in March

by William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850)

 The Cock is crowing,
 The stream is flowing,
 The small birds twitter,
 The lake doth glitter
 The green field sleeps in the sun ;
 The oldest and youngest
 Are at work with the strongest ;
 The cattle are grazing,
 Their heads never raising ;
 There are forty feeding like one !

 Like an army defeated
 The snow hath retreated,
 And now doth fare ill
 On the top of the bare hill ;
 The plowboy is whooping – anon – anon
 There’s joy in the mountains ;
 There’s life in the fountains ;
 Small clouds are sailing,
 Blue sky prevailing ;
 The rain is over and gone !

Listent o the poem here