Which the poet is apt to sing,

Are old and slow and clumsy, I know,

By us that have never a wing.

Still onward, onward, onward!

Till the brook joins the meadow below,

And then with a shout, see us tumbling out,

To plunge in the soft, deep snow.

Back now by the side of the hedge, boy,

Where the roses in summer blow,

Where the snow lies deep o’er their winter sleep,