One more log on the fire!
For we be agèd men
(Whom nothing once could tire—
But it was Summer then!)
With only one desire—
That Spring were born again.

Now Earth the deep snows cover,
That—long ago, alas!—
Was garmented with clover
And yellow weeds and grass;
The wasted days are over
We deemed could never pass.

Yet why should we go weeping
Because that sudden thief,
The snow, hath in its keeping
Each little bud and leaf?—
I think the grasses, sleeping,
Laugh softly at our grief!

For once of old we waited,
Praying that Spring might come
And Earth be consecrated;
(Had she discovered some
New resting-place, created
For her eternal home?)

But in our slumber-hours
Softly she came to us,
With gentle winds and showers,
Wayward and tyrannous;
With promises of flowers
Golden and glorious.
So like each little brother
We have beneath the snow,
Unto the mighty Mother.
A-sleeping let us go—
Till we—as they—another
Glad resurrection know!