The drifted ice of winter glows.
The buds that crowned the mountain-side,
The moss that fringed the lakelet’s shore,
Passed with the fleeting summer-tide,
And spring’s fair graces are no more.
I trace the pictures on the pane,
Then turn, where in my quiet room
The summer lives for me again,
And June’s sweet gifts in freshness bloom.
’Mid emerald moss and growing vines,