IN the snowing and the blowing,

In the cruel sleet, 

Little flowers begin their growing

Far beneath our feet. 

Softly taps the spring and cheerily, 

"Darlings, are you here?" 

Till the answer, "We are ready, 

Nearly ready, dear."

"Where is winter with his snowing? 

Tell us, Spring," they say; 

Then she answers: "He is going,

Going on his way. 

Poor old winter does not love you,

But his time is past; 

Soon my birds shall sing above you,

Set you free at last!"