And overhead, through a sky of gray,
The swallows are flying far away.
‘Whither away, sweet birds?’ I cry.
‘Autumn is come,’ they make reply.
Keenly, coldly, the north winds blow;
Silently falls the pure white snow;
Of birds and blossoms am I bereft—
Brave bright robin alone is left,
And he taps and chirps at my window pane:
‘Take heart; the spring will return again.’