A Walk in Spring
What could be nicer than the spring,
When little birds begin to sing?
When for my daily walk I go
Through fields that once were white with snow?
When in the green and open spaces
Lie baby lambs with sweet black faces?
What could be finer than to shout
That all the buds are bursting out—
And oh, at last beneath the hill,
To pick a yellow daffodil?
When little birds begin to sing?
When for my daily walk I go
Through fields that once were white with snow?
When in the green and open spaces
Lie baby lambs with sweet black faces?
What could be finer than to shout
That all the buds are bursting out—
And oh, at last beneath the hill,
To pick a yellow daffodil?
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.