MARCH . The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath; The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below Spring -that corn-fed, husky milkmaid- Is busy at her chores with never a letup. . The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia- See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?) Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming, And the lines of pitchforks simply glow with health. . These days--these days and these nights also, With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at noon, With icicles (cachectic) hanging onto gables, And with the chattering of rills that never sleep! . All doors are flung open- in stable and cowbarn; Pigeons peck at oats fallen in the snow, And the culprit of all this and its life-begetter - The pile of manure- is pungent with ozone.