The air is white with snow-flakes clinging;
Between the gusts that come and go
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Or can it be the breeze is bringing
The breath of violets?—Ah, no!
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
It is my lady’s voice that’s stringing
Its beads of gold to song; and so
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
The violets I see upspringing