POETRY.
MARCH WINDS.
THZ winds of June are clowns in the clover Riding the tops of the early rye, . Turning the spur-winged plovers over,-,-- Silvery gleams on a purple sky.
Winds of September come roughly sweeping Like tyrant Kings through the ripening corn, And behind them the Summer lies weeping, weeping For poppies trampled and roses torn.
Winds of October are friends returning When the orchard aisles are withered and brown, Breaking the twigs for our winter burning And flinging the ripe red apples down.
Winds of November that gather and follow With brooms that the Autumn mists obey Are housemaids busy on hill and holloiv Sweeping the leaves from the Winter's way.
But the winds of March that are yonder gliding:
Ah ! these are the dearest winds that blow !
Mothers they seem to me, stooping, guiding Little child-snowdrops out of the snow !
WILL H. OGLLVIE.
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