'As a teil-tree or an oak,'
So the ancient prophet spoke
'Whose heart remaineth when they shed
Their leaves!' The prophet now is dead,
But on a girl his mantle falls
And heartens other funerals.

December stood in confidence,
Winter long had pitched his tents,
When she and I together came
Along a way without a name;
And there she bade me lift my head
The while those verses old she said.

A knotted oak above the snow
I saw within a pasture grow;
A sturdy tree, not over high, —
Some several inches more than I.
His leaves were gone, but in the air
His branches other beauty wear.

About him little whips of wind
A wreath of winter sunlight bind.
The snow upon his feet is cold,
But in his heart is more than gold.
And light that only winter knows
Springs up to blossom on the snows.