The March wind comes huffing
And noisily puffing,
Rattling our windows and doors.
Like a great lion prowling,
It comes fiercely howling,
Making drafts through the chimney and floors.
But as March days go by,
It grows gentle and shy—
Not at all like the way it began.
March roars in like a lion,
But breezily sighing,
It skips meekly out like a lamb.