O pink and precious blooms of Spring
now dusted all in snow,
how cruel the dying winter’s sting,
how merciless this blow!
Return again when white is gone,
when sun melts ice away,
and come again, O piping faun,
once winter’s had his day.
And lest someone should think I hate
the sight of snow on trees:
What God destroys He did create;
He warms and He may freeze.
The piling ice is truly nice;
this snow is not my foe.
The winters spring, the summers fall,
my heart rejoices in them all.
Tale Told 