FEBRUARY
THE waters awake at last, and the tawny meads grow green;
Clouds run over the sky, and the air is wild with glee.
Who can doubt for a minute what all the stir may mean?
The Thrush goes flying up to the top of the poplar-tree,
With a “Spring! Spring! Spring!
Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” sings he.
Clouds run over the sky, and the air is wild with glee.
Who can doubt for a minute what all the stir may mean?
The Thrush goes flying up to the top of the poplar-tree,
With a “Spring! Spring! Spring!
Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” sings he.
Brave little points of palm begin to twinkle and gleam;
Frolicsome catkins volley gold-dust over the lea.
Earth is busy forgetting her weariful winter dream,
And loud and louder sings the Thrush, high up in the poplar-tree,
With a “Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Spring! Spring! Spring!” carols he.
Frolicsome catkins volley gold-dust over the lea.
Earth is busy forgetting her weariful winter dream,
And loud and louder sings the Thrush, high up in the poplar-tree,
With a “Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Spring! Spring! Spring!” carols he.