Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.
No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering,
But in her garden—risen from Summer's tomb
To bear the gospel of eternal Spring—
The Christmas roses bloom.
O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days
Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,
Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways—
Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!
We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour,