  U 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? |
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