“You may not kiss me, sir,” she said,
As saucily she tossed her head;
While laughter welled deep in her eyes,
“You may not kiss me -- ’till snow flies.”
 
Now this befell in jocund May
When all the air with bloom was gay.
But I -- I wished each leaf were sere
And dull December days were here,
 
Till there beneath the apple trees,
White petals showered in every breeze
And lay in fairy windrows piled;
“Why, how it snows!” she said, and smiled.