Throujrh all the driftecl snow Tbat fill the woodland nook. In lispin: musïc flows Tbe dark, unüliod brook. While wiudiag svift aiong Upon its icy woy, lts soug is b;it the song It sang in rosy May. Ah, happy brook, to sing. While winter tïays depart, The melody of fipring Tbat ripples in its heart!