I can not treasure them.

They melt beneath the sunbeam,
They sink into the ground,
And where they vanish, by-and-by,
Sweet flowers will be found,

And I am told they moisten
And make the flowrets grow;
So, welcome, very welcome,
Are the gentle flakes of snow.

Poor lammie! what a pity
One little foot is hurt,
And the face that was so pretty
Is covered with the dirt!

But up, and never mind it;
A little brook is near--
Among the grass you'll find it--
The water's cool and clear.

I guess you will feel better--
Step in and take a drink;
That shallow brook of water,
With flowers around the brink.

* * * * *