The world has cast her habiting
Of wind, of frost, of cold grey rain;
In sunny robes of braver grain
She dons the broidery of Spring.
And every tiny living thing
In his own way declares amain:
"The world has cast her habiting
Of wind, of frost, of cold grey rain."
And streams and brooks the tidings bring
Wearing their liveries again
Of gold and silver; Winter slain,
April may laugh aloud, and sing:
"The world has cast her habiting
Of wind, of frost, of cold grey rain."