Spring Is Not Dead

Snow on the earth, though March is wellnigh over;
Ice on the flood;
Fingers of frost where late the hawthorn cover
Burgeoned with bud.
Yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding,
Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding,
Yet from the root the sap still upward springing,
Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing,
"Spring is not dead!"

Brows fringed with snow, the furrowed brows of sorrow,
Cheeks pale with care:
Pulses of pain that throb from night till morrow;
Hearts of despair!
O, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches,
Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches,
April's own smile shall yet succeed your sighing,
April's own voice set every song-bird crying,
"Spring is not dead!"