My Little March Girl
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart,
There she is passing, the girl of my heart;
See where she walks like a queen in the street,
Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.
Tripping along with impetuous grace,
Joy of her life beaming out of her face,
Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,
Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Hint of the violet’s delicate bloom,
Hint of the rose’s pervading perfume!
How can the wind help from kissing her face,—
Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace?
But still serenely she laughs at his rout,
She is the victor who wins the bout.
So may life’s passions about her soul swirl,
Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes!
What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,
Frowning and glooming when, brimming with
Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife?
Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have
What can you do with that innocent brow?
Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and
But bringher to me, Wind,—my little March