The snow, the snow is coming,

So graceful and light,

All over every thing,

Beautiful and white.

A thousand, thousand snow-flakes,

They're swimming in the air;

They fall upon the cherry-trees,

And hang like blossoms there.

They are coming, coming, coming,

As far as I can see;

They 'light, like little fairy birds,

Upon the old oak tree.

Each flake of snow is pretty—

A spangle or a gem;

But they melt away in dew-drops—

I can not treasure them.

They melt beneath the sunbeam,

They sink into the ground,

And where they vanish, by-and-by,

Sweet flowers will be found,

And I am told they moisten

And make the flowrets grow;

So, welcome, very welcome,

Are the gentle flakes of snow.

Poor lammie! what a pity

One little foot is hurt,

And the face that was so pretty

Is covered with the dirt!

But up, and never mind it;

A little brook is near—

Among the grass you'll find it—

The water's cool and clear.

I guess you will feel better—

Step in and take a drink;

That shallow brook of water,

With flowers around the brink.