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.