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FEBRUARY
THE waters awake at last, and the tawny meads grow green;
Clouds run over the sky, and the air is wild with glee.
Who can doubt for a minute what all the stir may mean?
The Thrush goes flying up to the top of the poplar-tree,
With a “Spring! Spring! Spring!
Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” sings he.
Clouds run over the sky, and the air is wild with glee.
Who can doubt for a minute what all the stir may mean?
The Thrush goes flying up to the top of the poplar-tree,
With a “Spring! Spring! Spring!
Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” sings he.
Brave little points of palm begin to twinkle and gleam;
Frolicsome catkins volley gold-dust over the lea.
Earth is busy forgetting her weariful winter dream,
Frolicsome catkins volley gold-dust over the lea.
Earth is busy forgetting her weariful winter dream,
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