Come walk a mile with me--'Tis February;
The sun is creeping slowly toward the North,
And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry,
And prophets of the Spring are waking forth--
The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow
Beside his open villa, dark and cold,
And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow,
And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold.
And hark!--the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly,
And merry chickadees are piping loud,
E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly,
And the great trees are low before him bow'd;
And see!--the Lady of the South is creeping
Higher and higher--'Tis the hour of noon,
And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,--
Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune.
Yet, as the sun is with the day declining,
Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West,
Where the snow-fairies are again designing
Another robe for Nature's barren breast.