“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 showr’d in ev’ry breeze
And lay in fairy windrows piled. Ah!
“Why, how it snows!” she said, and smiled.