WHEN THE SNOW HAS LEFT THE MOUNTAINS. 
The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing, 
The small birds twitter, 
The lake doth glitter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
The oldest and the youngest 
Are at work with the strongest ; 
The cattle are grazing, 
Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like one. 
Like an army defeated 
The snow hath retreated, 
And now doth fare ill 
On the top of the bare hill ; 
The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : 
There’s joy in the mountains, 
There’s life in the fountains ; 
Small clouds are sailing, 
Blue sky prevailing; 
The rain is over and gone. 
Wordsworth. 
