In February

The birds have been singing to-day,

And saying: "The spring is near!

The sun is as warm as in May,

And the deep blue heavens are clear."

The little bird on the boughs

Of the sombre snow-laden pine

Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house,

And how shall I make it fine?

"For the season of snow is past;

The mild south wind is on high;

And the scent of the spring is cast

From his wing as he hurries by."

The little birds twitter and cheep

To their loves on the leafless larch;

But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep,

And the year hath not worn to March.