Do the little brown twigs complain
⁠That they have n't a leaf to wear?
Or the grass, when the wind and rain
⁠Pull at her matted hair ?

Do the little brooks struggle and moan
⁠When the ice has frozen their feet?
Or the moss turn gray as a stone,
⁠Because of the cold and sleet?

Do the buds that the leaves left bare
⁠To strive with their wintry fate,
In a moment of deep despair.
⁠Destroy what they cannot create?
Oh, nature is teaching us there
⁠To patiently wait, and wait.