WRITTEN FOR A CHILD'S BOOK

The bleak winds of winter are past,
The frost and the snow are both gone,
And the trees are beginning at last
To put their green liveries on.

And now if you look in the lane,
And along the warm bank, may be found
The violet in blossom again,
And shedding her perfume around

The primrose and cowslip are out,
And the fields are with daisies all gay,
While butterflies, flitting about,
Are glad in the sunshine to play

Not more glad than the bee is to gather
New honey to store in his cell;
He too is abroad this fine weather,
To rifle cup, blossom, and bell.

The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush
Are brimful of music and glee;
They have each got a nest in some bush,
And the rook has built his on a tree.

The lark's home is hid in the corn,
BuThe springs from it often on high,
And warbles his welcome to morn,
Till he looks like a speck in the sky.

O, who would be sleeping in bed
When the skies with such melody ring,
And the bright earth beneath him is spread
With the beauty and fragrance of spring?