“We must never let her know.”
“What’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;
“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,
“Thinks it’s spring—poor child, we fear
She will die if she should hear!”
Softly stole the wind away,
Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”
To a late thrush on the wing,
“Stay with her one day and sing!”
Sang the thrush so sweet and clear