Classic Poem

The hills where I was wont to go
Are buried in a shroud of snow;
The Ice king holds in fast embrace
The river with her shining face;
The trees, impatient, stand and wait
Summer to ope her golden gate,
But though wild winter doth enfold,—
Our merry hearts are never cold.

The hills again in green will rise
And lift their banners to the skies;
The river burst her frozen thong,
And leap and laugh in joyous song;
Each tree will don his leafy coat,
The robin sing with lusty throat;
Blessings will be most manifold,—
Our merry hearts are never cold!