O little buds, you waked too soon,
'Twas but a dream you had of June!
The fields are still with gray frost sere:
Spring is not here,

            Spring is not here.
 

Dear little buds, put down your heads,
Steal softly back to your dark beds.
In Earth's warm breast, so still and deep:
Go back to sleep,

            Go back to sleep.
 

O little eyes, you waked too soon,
'Twas but the gleaming of the moon!
Night's stars are out, all bright and clear:
Dawn is not here,

            Dawn is not here.
 

Dear little eyes, shut your white lids,
And hush you, now, as mother bids.
On her soft breast your safe nest keep:
Go back to sleep,

            Go back to sleep.

^__Ester M. (Clark) Hill.