Midwinter

The dewdrop from the rose that drips
Hath not the sparkle of her lips,
My lady's lips.

Than her long braids of yellow hold
The dandelion hath not more gold,
Her braids of gold.

The blue-bell hints not more of skies
Than do the flowers of her eyes,
My lady's eyes.

The sweet-pea bloom shows not more grace
Of delicate pink than doth her face,
My lady's face.

So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray,
Spring blossoms in my heart to-day,
This winter day!