For all the trees they speak of spring,
Yet that grey sky of winter does sing.
Oh the seasons they are between, the death of winter the life of spring.
So listen, and listen well for that mourning tune and the rebirth that does swell.
For the seasons do meet on this cold green day, the green of spring with winter’s cold gray.
The start is here in this end of the slumber, the earth does awake like one’s tired lover.
As if to say just a wee bit more must I sleep must I slumber before it shakes that melancholy gray away for the sweet green of a bright spring day.