Sonnet

All Nature ministers to Hope. The snow
Of sluggard Winter, bedded on the hill,
And the small tinkle of the frozen rill,
The swoln flood's sullen roar, the storms that go
With crash, and howl, and horrid voice of woe,
Making swift passage for their lawless will —
All prophecy of good. The hungry trill
Of the lone birdie, cowering close below
The dripping eaves —it hath a kindly feeling,
And cheers the life that lives for milder hours.

Why, then, since Nature still is busy healing,
And Time, the waster, his own work concealing,
Decks every grave with verdure and with flowers,
Why should Despair oppress immortal powers ?