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MARCH.
In the snowing and the blowing,
In the cruel sleet,
Little flowers begin their growing
Far beneath our feet.
Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,—
"Darlings, are you here?"
Till they answer, "We are nearly,
Nearly ready, dear."
"Where is Winter, with his snowing?
Tell us, Spring," they say.
Then she answers, "He is going,
Going on his way.
Poor old Winter does not love you;
But his time is past;
Soon my birds shall sing above you,—
Set you free at last."
[GARDEN SONGS.]
Little green Hummer
Was born in the summer;
His coat was as bright
As the emerald's light.
Short was his song,
Though his bill it was long;
His weight altogether
Not more than a feather.
From dipping his head
In the sunset red,
And gilding his side
In its fiery tide,
He gleamed like a jewel,
And darted around,
'Twixt sunlight and starlight,
Ne'er touching the ground.
Now over a blossom,
Now under, now in it;
Here, there, and everywhere,
All in a minute.
Ah! never he cared
Who wondered and stared,—
His life was completeness
Of pleasure and sweetness;
He revelled in lightness,
In fleetness and brightness,
This sweet little Hummer
That came with the summer.
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