And blight the blooms that made them fair.
Cheerless we scan the wastes of white
Which seem of Hope the high-heaped grave,
Nor guess that hidden far from sight
Lie germs of joy, secure and brave;
And that, when comes God’s blessed spring,
(As surely it shall come at last
To every grieved and patient thing!)
And all the winter-time is past,—
And the snow melts, and hands unseen