When the ice was thick on the flower-beds,
And the sleet was caked on the briar;
When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads,
And the ways were clogged with mire:
When the snow on syringa and spiræa-tree
Seemed the ghosts of perished flowers;
And the days were sorry as sorry could be,
And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours:
Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs,
That chirped with the sap in the burning?--
Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs?
Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning?
And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows,
In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes;
Where the earth was holy with lily and rose,
And the myriad life of the grasses.
And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaks
To his sweetheart; to whom he has given
A kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks,
And her eyes with the laughter of heaven.
The sound of the sap!--What a simple thing!--
But the sound of the sap had the power
To make the song-sparrow come and sing,
And the winter woodlands flower!