What does the white world know
Of flowers eager to grow
Under the snow?
Do the brown limbs care
As they swing in the crisp clear air?
But O, little seed, you know,
Lying patiently so—
Head underground,
Only wait—the call will go round,
You'll know the sound.
And O, the snow must go,
For you, little seed, are waiting to grow!
O, the joy to lift the head
Straight above the dark brown bed,
O, the joy to feel the tread
Of spring with skipping bare brave feet,
Down the warm, wet village street.
Ah, then the brown branches care
And try to touch her hair;
Streaming out in the new warm air,
And O, the sky is glad, and every brook and glen
For then,
The world begins all over again!
