By the lake or river-side
Where the Alders dwell,
In the Autumn may be spied
Baby catkins; cones beside—
Old and new as well.
Seasons come and seasons go;
That’s the tale they tell!
After Autumn, Winter’s cold
Leads us to the Spring;
And, before the leaves unfold,
On the Alder you’ll behold,
Crimson catkins swing!
They are making ready now:
That’s the song I sing!