If on this night of still, white cold,
I can remember May,
New green of tree and underbrush,
A hillside orchard's mounting flush,
The scent of earth and noon's blue hush,
A robin's jaunty way;

If on this night of bitter frost,
I know such things can be,
That lovely May is true — ah, well,
I shall believe the tales men tell,
Wonders of bliss and asphodel,
And immortality.