THE SNOWBIRD
When the leaves are shed
And the branches bare,
When the snows are deep
And the flowers asleep,
And the autumn dead;
And the skies are o’er us bent
Gray and gloomy since she went,
And the sifting snow is drifting
Through the air;
Then mid snowdrifts white,
Though the trees are bare,
Comes the Snowbird bold
In the winter’s cold.
Quick and round and bright,
Light he steps across the snow.
Cares he not for winds that blow,
Though the sifting snow be drifting
Through the air.
—Dora R. Goodale.