Under the Snow.
WHAT have you hidden down under the snow,
So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow?
Why your face pressed to the cold window pane,
Longing to mingle your tears with the rain—
Is there something down under the snow?
Is it only a blossom, a summer’s delight,
That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night?
That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm,