FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

In winter, when the wind I hear, I know the clouds will disappear; For 'tis the wind who sweeps the sky And piles the snow in ridges high. In spring, when stirs the wind, I know 5 That soon the crocus buds will show; For 'tis the wind who bids them wake And into pretty blossoms break. In summer, when it softly blows, Soon red I know will be the rose; 10 For 'tis the wind to her who speaks, And brings the blushes to her cheeks. In autumn, when the wind is up, I know the acorn's out its cup; For 'tis the wind who takes it out, And plants an oak somewhere about.