The icy northern blast sweeps by,
From wild wastes of the Arctic snow;
Above us droops a wintry sky,
A bleak white landscape lies below.
But, 'neath the chilly Polar blast,
A low, sweet undertone I hear:
"The wintry storms will soon be past,
And pleasant Spring-time days are near."
In Winter's stern and icy grasp,
Are river, pond, and rill, to-day;
Like iron bonds his fetters' clasp,
Like despot's rule his frosty sway.
But only yesterday I heard—
Though all the landscape was so drear—
The sweet voice of a lonesome bird:
"The Spring-time days will soon be here."
The air is icy, keen and chill,
All Nature lies in sleep profound,
That seems like death—so cold, so still—
But flowers are biding underground.
The sun mounts up, from day to day,
His beams each morn more full of cheer.
And to our hearts they seem to say:
"The Spring-time days will soon be here."
The ice and snow will soon be gone,
The Spring-time waits the sun's warm rays,
Already we can trace the dawn
Of brighter, warmer, sweeter days.
Each morn we watch for signs of Spring,
Each evening feel its coming near.
All Nature's voices seem to sing:
"The Spring-time days will soon be here."
And though an Arctic wind sweeps by
From wildest wastes of ice and snow,
And though above us wintry sky,
And desolate white fields below—
Beneath the wind's wild organ-blast,
A low, sweet undertone I hear:
"The wintry storms will soon be past,
The sunny Spring-time days are near."
