Spring—and the wild March wind
The snow-covered prairies sweep;
From North Dakota’s frozen clod
The fur-clad Pasque Flowers peep.
Summer—and gentle showers,
And soft the zephyrs blow;
O’er North Dakota’s rolling plains
The modest Roses grow.
Autumn—and burnished skies,
And parching, sun-scorched sod;
And by the wayside still there blooms
The stately Goldenrod.
Winter—the flowers are dead
And fierce the cold winds blow;
Yet ’spite of North Dakota’s snow
The flowers of Hope still grow.