I sit beneath a leaden sky,
Amid the piled and drifted snow;
My feet are on the graves where lie
The roses which made haste to die
So long, so very long ago.

The sobbing wind is fierce and strong,
Its cry is like a human wail,
But in my heart it sings this song:
"Not long, O Lord! O Lord, not long!
Surely thy spring-time shall prevail."

Out of the darkness and the cold,
Out of the wintry depths I lean,
And lovingly I clasp and hold
The promises, and see unrolled
A vision of the summer green.

O, life in death, sweet plucked from pain!
O, distant vision fair to see!
Up the long hill we press and strain;
We can bear all things and attain,
If once our faces turn to Thee!