The book is called Snow Towards Evening, and this is the March poem.
Because of the steepness,
the streamlet runs white,
narrow and broken
as lightning by night.
Because of the rocks,
it leaps this way and that,
fresh as a flower,
quick as a cat.
Written by Elizabeth Coatsworth
Whereas I do not have a mountain brook or a stream or even a rivulet of water, March is in the air here in northern Indiana. My neighbor saw his first robin yesterday, and my bird feeders are full of birds flying in and out as if I am a local diner on their way to somewhere!
Here is also a lovely rendition of the Lady of Shallot.