Classic Poem

“O H , where is the Spring, mother dear,
And when will it come back again?
For this sad snow fills me with fear,
And I long for the soft-falling rain.
And I long for the glad, green leaves,
And the sweet little birds on the wing,
And the swallows which chirp round the eaves—
Oh, Mother, let's go seek the Spring.”

And then the fond mother did chide,
Leaning over her sick one's brow,
Nor her sad, swift tears could she hide,
Nor her sighs could she stifle I trow.
For the drooping child still cried, “Come!
To the sweet spring mead let us pass,
For I long for the wild bee's hum,
And the grasshopper's chirp in the grass.”

“No! The rough winds are blowing, my child,
And the sad snow falls far and wide,
And the bleak woods are leafless and wild,
And sigh on the gloomy hill-side.
And all the eave-cabins are still,
And the linnets in other lands sing,
And the thrush and the lone whippoorwill—
Let us wait yet awhile for the Spring.

“Oh no, let us seek it, I pray,
While yet I have strength, mother dear,
To roam o'er the hills far away,
And find the sweet bud of the year.
For I dream of the rivulet's brink,
And I sigh at the sad thoughts they bring,
When of all the sweet blossoms I think
Which gleam far away in the Spring.”

But the death-flakes began to fall,
And the soft cheeks grew white as snow,
And the eye-lids closed down like a pall
On the little round orbs below.
'Twas winter within and without,
For the fond little spirit took wing,
Nor could the bereaved mother doubt
That her soul was away to the spring!