When March was master of furrow and fold,
And the skies kept cloudy festival
And the daffodil pods were tipped with gold
And a passion was in the plover’ s call,
A spare old man went hobbling by
With a broken pipe and a tapping stick,
And he mumbled —“Blossom before I die,
Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.
“I’ ve weathered the world for a count of years —
Good old years of shining fire —
And death and the devil bring no fears,
And I’ ve fed the flame of my last desire;
I’ m ready to go, but I’ d pass the gate
On the edge of the world with an old heart sick
If I missed the blossoms. I may not wait —
The gate is open — be quick, be quick.”