  By SARAH DOUDNEY. Soft snow still rests within this wayside cleft, Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled; Last trace of dreary winter, idly left On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled; Why does it linger while the violets blow, And sweet things grow? A relic of long nights and weary days, When all fair things were hidden from my sight; A chill reminder of those mournful ways I traversed when the fields were cold and white; My life was dim, my hopes lay still and low Beneath the snow. Now spring is coming, and my buried love Breaks fresh and strong and living through the sod; The lark sings loudly in the blue above, The budding earth must magnify her God; Let the old sorrows and old errors go With the last snow! decorative line
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