When March blows, and Monday's linen is shown
On the gooseberry bushes, and the worried washer alone
Fights at the soaked stuff, meres and the rutted pools
Mirror the wool-pack clouds and shine clearer than jewels.

And the children throw stones in them, spoil mirrors and clouds.
The worry of washing over, the worry of foods
Brings tea-time; March quietens as the trouble dies.
The washing is brought in under wind-swept clear infinite skies.