  THE heart of the world beats slow, And the pulse of life is low, And the shrunk earth powerless lies, and prone in the clutches of the frost; And the short, short days go by, And the sun in the wintry sky Shoots a cold ray into the noon as if its heat were lost. But put your ear to the ground, And a stir of dim-heard sound Will reach it,—a murmur of slow revolt, like the hiss of a rising tide. No rootlet faint and chill But shares the quivering thrill; And mutinous whispers come and go where the thralls of the winter hide. Ah, despot, hoary and old! Your fetters are strong and cold, But stronger the slender slaves they bind, and they shall conquer thee. A little longer still You may urge your cruel will, Then the dungeon-doors shall open wide and the prisoners go free. Bluebird and robin then Shall sing your requiem. The moon shall laugh at your defeat, the teasing winds deride; For your icicles on eaves Shall dance the happy leaves And the bayonets of the daffodils thrust all your frosts aside. For while the stars endure This sweet truth standeth sure,— That life is ever lord of death, and love o’ercometh hate. So, though the months seem long, And the icy fetters strong, We will abide in patience, come the springtime soon or late. |
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