But the grand old trees that love it well,
And the winter bird,—they both can tell
That ever it sings, as it sang of old,
When winds are bleak and days are cold,
“Here I tinkle, and there I dash,
I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash;
Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I,
Singing along when snowflakes fly!”
—Grace E. Harlow.