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.