The grass is green, and soon the stubbled lea
A black and matted meadow will appear;
The sprouting hedges that were black and sere
Are growing choirs for the birds of glee.
The buds are shooting from the elm-tree;
The sword-leaved snowdrop by the window near,
His head he lifts to tell of how the year
Is flying past and never waits for me.
The rising sun behind the eastern hill
Smiles down and laughs upon the working man,
And where the honeysuckle decks the thorn,
And casts its perfume to the sparkling rill,
The carolling robins like a music band
Throw forth their notes into the youthful morn.
Bertie Robinson Age 13