'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere—the snow I mean.
Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.
The man who says he don't regret its passing also lies.
And wilt thou never come again? Yes, thou wilt never come again. Alas!
How well I remember thee! 'Twas but yesterday, methinks.
When a great daub of snow fell from a nearby housetop
And when I ventured—poor foolish mortal that I was—to look,
Caught me fairly in the mouth (an awful swat) and nearly smothered me.
There is another little trick of thine, most lovely snow—
It is but a proof of thine affection to cling around our necks,