My Garden
When fields are green, and skies are fair,
And summer fragrance fills the air,
I love to watch the budding rose
That in my pleasant garden grows;
But when old Winter, fierce and free,
Has hushed the murmur of the bee,
And all the fields and hills are hid
Beneath his snowy coverlid,
Oh! then my only garden-spot
Is just this little flower-pot.
