The blackberry's bloom, when last we went this way,
Veiled all her bowsome rods with trembling white;
The robin's sunset breast gave forth delight
At sunset hour; the wind was warm with May.
Armored in ice the sere stems arch to-day,
Each tiny thorn encased and argent bright;
Where clung the birds that long have taken flight,
Dead songless leaves cling fluttering on the spray.
O hand in mine, that mak'st all paths the same,
Being paths of peace, where falls nor chill nor gloom,
Made sweet with ardors of an inward spring!
I hold thee—frozen skies to rosy flame
Are turned, and snows to living snows of bloom,
And once again the gold-brown thrushes sing.
