"Why dost thou sing, thou cocky little bird,
Sitting serenely on thy perch aloft?
What can be so cheery that thou has heard
To make thee sing so in this bleak, bare, croft?
The wind bloweth sharply, bitingly cold,
Propelling the small, stinging drops of rain.
What is the source of joy so manifold
Which thus bubbles forth in joyous refrain?"
"Why sing so cheery? Indeed, gloomy maid,
There's reason enough e'en in this bare place!
-Just look for yourself, o'er in yonder glade.
The snowdrops are up! Spring soon shall replace
The cold, biting, wind with zephyrs so sweet
And sharp, stinging raindrops with dewdrops fleet!"