by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Oh, who would be so sad tho’ the sky
And meadow and woodlands are empty
For softly and merrily now there come
The little white birds thro’ the winter-
The squirrel’s enjoying the rest of the
He munches his store in the old hollow
Tho’ cold is the blast and the snow-flakes
He fears the white flock not a whit
more than we.
Then heigho for the flying snow!
Over the whitened roads we go,
With pulses that tingle,
And sleigh-bells a-jingle
For winter’s white birds here’s a cheery