UNDER THE SNOW.

UNDER the snow lie sweet things out of sight,

Couching like birds beneath a downy breast;

They cluster’ neath the coverlet warm and white,

And bide the winter-time in hopeful rest.

There are the hyacinths, holding ivory tips

Pointed and ready for a hint of sun;

And hooded violets, with dim, fragrant lips

Asleep and dreaming fairy dreams each one.

There lurk a myriad quick and linkèd roots,

Coiled for a spring when the ripe time is near;

The brave chrysanthemum’ s pale yellow shoots

And daffodils, the vanguard of the year;

The nodding snowdrop and the columbine;

The hardy crocus, prompt to hear a call;

Pensile wistaria and thick woodbine;

And valley lilies, sweetest of them all.

All undismayed, although the drifts are deep,

All sure of spring and strong of cheer they lie;

And we, who see but snows, we smile and keep

The selfsame courage in the by and by.

Ah! the same drifts shroud other precious things,—

Flower-like faces, pallid now and chill,

Feet laid to rest after long journeyings,

And fair and folded hands forever still.

All undismayed, in deep and hushed repose,

Waiting a sweeter, further spring, they lie;

And we, whose yearning eyes see but the snows,

Shall we not trust, like them, the by and by?