  UNLEAVED, undrooping, still, they stand, This stanch and patient pilgrim band; October robbed them of their fruit, November stripped them to the root, The winter smote their helplessness With furious ire and stormy stress, And now they seem almost to stand In sight of Summer’s Promised Land. Yet seen through frosty window-panes, When bared and bound in wintry chains, Their lightsome spirits seemed to play With February as with May. The snow that turned the skies afrown Enwrapt them in the softest down, And rains that dulled the landscape o’er But left them livelier than before. But now this June-like day of March With patient strength their branches arch, Not as unmindful of the breeze That makes midsummer melodies, And that rough days must dawn and fade Before, all blossoming bright, they stand In sight of Summer’s Promised Land. |
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