It's getting towards the end of March
And winter's nearly dead.
At least, that's what spring said
When at last it's warmth could overarch
The frigid, monotonic starch
That's kept at bay
The likes of May—
And the rosy plumelets of the larch.
But let us not miscalculate
With overweening boldness
The value of the coldness
Of our local yearly winter state
(Despite that we must insulate)—
It like arrests
Who'd here-wards otherwise migrate.
—Anon A. Mouse