When that the breezes blow in May,
And snow melts from the wood away,
Blue violets lift their heads on high,
And when the little wood-birds sing,
And flow'rets from the ground up-spring,
Then everybody's glad.
Others complaining of Winter, who must have leave of absence, and the wrongs it has wrought are poured out to Summer. The little birds are very human; the owlet complains:
Poor little owlet me!
I have to fly all alone through the wood to-night;
The branch I want to perch on is broken,