Nothing for the birds is here;
Very cold the air is growing,
’Tis the winter of the year:
Frost will nip the robins’ food,
’Twill no more be sweet and good.
“See the clouds the skies that cover;
’Tis from them the snowflakes fall,
Whitening hills and fields all over,
Hanging from the fir-trees tall.
Were it warm, ’twould rain; but lo,