“THERE IS A BUDDING MORROW IN MIDNIGHT.”

Wintry boughs against a wintry sky;

Yet the sky is partly blue

And the clouds are partly bright.

Who can tell but sap is mounting high

Out of sight,

Ready to burst through?

Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring,

Lovely for her daughter's sake.

Not unlovely for her own;

For a future buds in everything

Grown or blown

Or about to break.