The March wind rises through the skies,
His great wings rustling as he flies,
And downward sweeps o'er plain and hill
The sunshine to the daffodil.

The little songs which come and go,
In tender measures, to and fro,
Whene'er the day brings you to me,
Keep my heart full of melody.

But on my lute I strive in vain
To play the music o'er again,
And you, dear love, will never know
The little songs which come and go.