The work of the sun is slow,
But as sure as heaven, we know;
So we'll not forget,
When the skies are wet,
There's green grass under the snow.
When the winds of winter blow,
Wailing like voices of woe,
There are April showers,
And buds and flowers,
And green grass under the snow.
We find that it's ever so
In this life's uneven flow;
We've only to wait,
In the face of fate,
For the green grass under the snow.
Annie A. Preston
