UNDER the snow lie sweet things out of sight,
Couching like birds beneath a downy breast;
They cluster ’neath the coverlet warm and white,
And bide the winter-time in hopeful rest.
There are the hyacinths, holding ivory tips
Pointed and ready for a hint of sun;
And hooded violets, with dim, fragrant lips
Asleep and dreaming fairy dreams each one.
There lurk a myriad quick and linkèd roots,
Coiled for a spring when the ripe time is near;
The brave chrysanthemum’s pale yellow shoots
And daffodils, the vanguard of the year;
The nodding snowdrop and the columbine;
The hardy crocus, prompt to hear a call;
Pensile wistaria and thick woodbine;
And valley lilies, sweetest of them all.
All undismayed, although the drifts are deep,
All sure of spring and strong of cheer they lie;
And we, who see but snows, we smile and keep
The selfsame courage in the by and by.
Ah! the same drifts shroud other precious things,—
Flower-like faces, pallid now and chill,
Feet laid to rest after long journeyings,
And fair and folded hands forever still.
All undismayed, in deep and hushed repose,
Waiting a sweeter, further spring, they lie;
And we, whose yearning eyes see but the snows,
Shall we not trust, like them, the by and by?