  A crocus peeped out from its snow-covered bed, In a wood where the red robins sing, And sighed, 'I could fancy, where brown leaves are spread I heard the first footfall of Spring.' And e'en while it spoke, from a tree-top above There fluttered the song of the Wind: 'I come from the south, with a message of love, And the Spring follows closely behind.' Then while the soft echo was stealing along, The snow melted gently away, And over the meadow a bee's early song Told stories of April and May. The bluebell and primrose are blossoming fast, And see, where the snow-drifts still cling, The Sun his rich mantle has gallantly cast At the feet of her Majesty, Spring. |
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