Come when the trees are bare and the wind is crying—
Voice of my hidden fears—
Come when the skies are grey and the day is dying—
Bringer of silent tears.

Then shall I take your hand in the dusk of sorrow,
Finding my fears come true;
Then shall I rise to greet the cheerless morrow,
Building my life anew.

Only when April comes with buds unfolding,
Quieting all my fears,
Spare me the bitter gift your hands are holding,
Bringer of silent tears!