Beware the ides of March.
Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping anon anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life ...
The ides of March are come.
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.
The character of a people may be ruined by charity.
