Spring.

A poem by H. P. Nichols

I am coming, I am coming,
With my carpet soft and green;
I have spread it o'er the common,
And a prettier ne'er was seen.

Soon I'll spangle it with clover,
And the dandelions bright;
You shall pick them in your aprons,
Yellow, red, and snowy white.

I am coming, and the tree-tops,
That all winter were so bare,
You shall see, with small leaves covered,
Wave their branches in the air.

I am coming! Little children,
Can you tell me who am I?
If not, you will soon remember,
For I'm just now passing by.