Good morning to you, red bird,
Who sits upon the cherry tree
And whistles to the blue bird
Who sits upon the maple tree.
Sing louder, robins,
For the first spring day in many a week
Has washed away the winter snow,
And swept the ice from off the brook.
Wake up, little frog,
And hop across the path again,
For the meadow grass is soft and green
As soft and green as soft as sand.
The crocuses are in bloom again—
The yellow and the white and purple;
And on a hundred blades of grass
The bees are humming to the world.