IN WINTER, WITH THE BOOK WE READ IN SPRING

The blackberry's bloom, when last we went this way,

Veiled all her bowsome rods with trembling white;

The robin's sunset breast gave forth delight

At sunset hour; the wind was warm with May.

Armored in ice the sere stems arch to-day,

Each tiny thorn encased and argent bright;

Where clung the birds that long have taken flight,

Dead songless leaves cling fluttering on the spray.

O hand in mine, that mak'st all paths the same,

Being paths of peace, where falls nor chill nor gloom,

Made sweet with ardors of an inward spring!

I hold thee — frozen skies to rosy flame

Are turned, and snows to living snows of bloom,

And once again the gold-brown thrushes sing.