Hail! Stormy March!
   No other month
Is welcomed more than thee:
   The furious blast
That hurries past
   Is but the winter freed.

The ice-bound lake
   Its fetters break
when though again art near;
   The waters foam
Where fishes roam
   When Spring with thee is here

The ocean's wave
   Where many a brave
as stemmed the current wild,
   Is tossed and rolled
Like mountins bold
   Before the furious tide.

The fields which seem
   No life to them
Are wakened by the blast,
   And grains arise,
Such as we prize
   Now that the winter's past.

Thrice welcome, then,
   We'll prize thee when
The cold cold days are o'er,
   though winds may blow
Where e'er we go,
   On lake or distant shore.

March the 4th 1864 while on Picket