  The brook is brimmed with melting snow, The maple sap is running, And on the highest elm, a crow His coal-black wings is sunning. A close, green bud the Mayflower lies Upon its mossy pillow; And sweet and low the south wind blows, And through the brown fields calling goes, “Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!” Soon red will bud the maple trees, The bluebirds will be singing, The yellow tassels in the breeze Be from the poplars swinging. And rosy will the Mayflower be Upon its mossy pillow, But you must come the first of all— “Come, Pussy!” is the south wind’s call, “Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow! Within your close, brown wrapper stir, Come out and show your silver fur, Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!” —Anonymous. |
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