When my Wings Grow

Next wintertime when my wings grow,    
I shall flee these dank isles to go    
where hail shall not batter at me,    
and fly across some emerald sea    
to where sunshine falls, not cold snow.    
    
I shall be guided by rainbows;    
the springtime cuckoo's soft echo,    
the murmuring of honey bees,    
Next Wintertime...    
   
There, I'll run fleet through green meadows    
not peak out on cold frost rimed snow,    
this sun will fill me with such glee    
not dread, thick winter clothed, but free    
to glow, but when, when my wings grow?    
Next Wintertime...