Part 1
JANUARY
And look!—the trees their naked trunks are swaying,
As bitterly each blast goes howling by,
And hark!—the music in the hemlocks playing,
Like some lost spirit banished from the sky,
And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling,
Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow,
While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling.
How cold it is!—Come, let us homeward go
There will we find the cheerful fire still burning,
There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow,
And there kind hearts will welcome our returning;
Come!—let us hasten through the drifty snow.
FEBRUARY.
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.
MARCH.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis March and windy,
And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast,
And hark!—the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday,
Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast;
Louder and louder now the winds are wailing,
Faster and faster wings the frozen snow,
Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing,
As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro.
But see!—the sun above the clouds is creeping,
And look!—soft flakes are falling, one by one,
And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping,
While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done.
And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning,
Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills,
And hark!—the robin from the South returning,
Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills,
And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping,
Gathers the sap that sings a merry song,
While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping,
And noisy squirrels leap the trees among.