The west wind lifts the plumes of the fir,
The west wind swings on the pine;
In the sun-and-shadow the cushats stir;
For the breath of Spring is a wine
That fills the wood,
That thrills the blood,
When the glad March sun doth shine.

When the strong May sun is a song, a song,
A song in the good green world,
Then the little green leaves wax long
And the little fern-fronds are uncurl'd
The banners of green are all unfurl'd,
And the wind goes marching along, along,
The wind goes marching along
The good green world.