The brown birds hop from twig to reed,
They search the ground for fallen seed,
And all around the snowy ledge,
I see their tracks among the feed.
My window looks at wood and hedge,
At knee-deep drifts that hide the sedge,
And block the path that leads to town,
Away off at the wood’s far edge.
And still the flakes come drifting down,
To bury green and cover brown,
No matter that it’s April soon,
It’s February wears the crown.
Forever winter, harsh winds croon,
No cheerful robin pipes its tune,
Just snow on ledge and stormy moon,
Just snow on ledge and stormy moon.