  Arbutus lies beneath the snows, While winter waits her brief repose, And says, “No fairer flower grows!” Of sunny April days she dreams, Of robins’ notes and murmuring streams, And smiling in her sleep she seems. She thinks her rosy buds expand Beneath the touch of childhood’s hand, And beauty breathes throughout the land. The arching elders bending o’er The silent river’s sandy shore, Their golden tresses trim once more. The pussy willows in their play Their varnished caps have flung away, And hung their furs on every spray. The squirrel seeks his summer haunt, And life revives in every plant. “I must awake! I hear the bee! The butterfly I long to see! The buds are bursting on the tree!” Ah! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear; The wild winds howl about thee here The dirges of the dying year! Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet; In sweeter sleep these pains forget; Thy merry morning comes not yet! |
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