Six poplar-trees, in golden green,
Stand up the sweet May snow between —
The snow of plum and pear tree bloom —
And I, looking down from my little room,
Call to the bird on the bough: "What cheer?"
And he pipes for answer: "The spring is here."
A month goes by with its sun and rain,
And a rosebud taps at my window-pane;
I see in the garden down below
The tall white lilies a stately row;
The birds are pecking the cherries red:
"Summer is sweet," the starlings said.
Again I look from my casement down;
The leaves are changing to red and brown;
And overhead, through a sky of gray,
The swallows are flying far away.
"Whither away, sweet birds?" I cry.
"Autumn is come," they make reply.
Keenly, coldly, the north winds blow;
Silently falls the pure white snow;
Of birds and blossoms am I bereft,
Brave bright robin alone is left,
And he taps and chirps at my window-pane:
"Take heart; the spring will return again."