March is slain; the keen winds fly; br Nothing more is thine to do; br April kisses thee good-bye; br Thou must haste and follow too; br Silent friend that guarded well br Withered things to make us glad, br Shyest friend that could not tell br Half the kindly thought he had. br Haste thee, speed thee, O kind snow; br Down the dripping valleys go, br From the fields and gleaming meadows, br Where the slaying hours behold thee, br From the forests whose slim shadows, br Brown and leafless cannot fold thee, br Through the cedar lands aflame br With gold light that cleaves and quivers, br Songs that winter may not tame, br Drone of pines and laugh of rivers.