The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.