SNOW.
The snow, the snow is coming,
So graceful and light,
All over every thing,
Beautiful and white.
A thousand, thousand snow-flakes,
They're swimming in the air;
They fall upon the cherry-trees,
And hang like blossoms there.
They are coming, coming, coming,
As far as I can see;
They 'light, like little fairy birds,
Upon the old oak tree.
Each flake of snow is pretty—
A spangle or a gem;
But they melt away in dew-drops—
I can not treasure them.
They melt beneath the sunbeam,
They sink into the ground,
And where they vanish, by-and-by,
Sweet flowers will be found,
And I am told they moisten
And make the flowrets grow;
So, welcome, very welcome,
Are the gentle flakes of snow.
Poor lammie! what a pity
One little foot is hurt,
And the face that was so pretty
Is covered with the dirt!
But up, and never mind it;
A little brook is near—
Among the grass you'll find it—
The water's cool and clear.
I guess you will feel better—
Step in and take a drink;
That shallow brook of water,
With flowers around the brink.