Now, behind that screen of verdure
Is my angel lost to view;
And no longer for the robins
Will her white hands bread-crumbs strew.
Never in the frosts of winter,
Did those robins beg in vain;
Now, alas! the snow has melted,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!
’Tis kind winter that I wish for;—
How I long to hear the hail