Classic Poem

A little longer the winds shall blow
From the still white billows of frozen seas, —
Shall shriek through the branches of naked trees,
And heap the valleys with hills of snow.

A little longer the land shall lie,
Corpse-like, silent, wrapped in a shroud,
While storms hold wake like a drunken crowd,
A fierce, wild rout — but the end is high.

A deathless heart in a frozen breast,
Far out of the reach of frost or storm,
Throbs with a beat as soft and warm
As the pulse of a babe in its rosy rest.

A little longer the winter-night —
The silent sleeper shall wake at morn, —
Shall wake and sing, with joy new-born,
Wreathed with violets, crowned with light.

Looking out over wastes of snow,
Vast and boundless, — a realm of death, —
We long for the south-wind's gentle breath,
For carol of birds, and for water's flow.

A little longer to feel the sting
Of the creeping frost, and against the blast
To close our doors and bolt them fast —
Then to fling them wide at the touch of Spring!

O days of sorrow! O Storms of Fate!
Could we see the end, when clouds hang low,
As we see the Spring through the Winter's snow,
And know it would come — we well could wait!