THE TRUMPETERS

The winds of March are trumpeters,
They blow with might and main,
And herald to the waiting earth
The Spring and all her train.

They harbinger the April showers,
With sunny smiles between,
That wake the blossoms in their beds,
And make the meadows green.

The South will send her spicy breath,
The brook in music flow,
The orchard don a bloomy robe
Of May’s unmelting snow.

Then June will stretch her golden days,
Like harpstrings, bright and long,
And play a rich accompaniment
To every wild bird’s song.

The fair midsummer time, apace,
Shall bring us many a boon,
And ripened fruits, and yellow sheaves
Beneath the harvestmoon.

The goldenrod, a Grecian torch,
Will light the splendid scene,
When Autumn comes in all the pomp
And glory of a queen.

Her crimson sign shall flash and shine
On every wooded hill,
And Plenty’s horn unto the brim
Her lavish bounty fill. — Andrew Downing

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