And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.
Folded in root and grain is lying,
The bud, the bloom we soon may see,
And in the old year now a-dying
Is hid the new year that shall be.
O what if snows be deep? so shrouded
Matures the soil with promise rife
And sap, for all the skies be clouded,
Ripens at heart a lustier life.
Then welcome winter—while we shiver