The west wind lifts the plumes of the fir, The west wind swings on the pine; In the sun-and-shadow the cushats stir; For the breath of Spring is a wine That fills the wood, That thrills the blood, When the glad March sun doth shine; Once more, When the glad March sun doth shine. When the strong May sun is a song, a song, A song in the good green world, Then the little green leaves wax long And the little fern-fronds are uncurl'd; The banners of green are all unfurl'd, And the wind goes marching along, along, The wind goes marching along The good green world. |