Уильям Каллен Брайант (William Cullen Bryant)

March

The stormy March is come at last,
    With wind, and cloud, and changing skies,
I hear the rushing of the blast,
    That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
    Wild stormy month! in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
    Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou, to northern lands, again
    The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train
    And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
    Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
    And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills
    And the full springs, from frost set free,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
    Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
    Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But in thy sternest frown abides
    A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
    And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
    Seems of a brighter world than ours.

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