Wreck of the winter upcast into April.
Buds? — no buds on the bough as yet.
Only a hope and a promise of summer
To spring through the wet.

Just last night, as the air like water
Hung, and softened the rigid close,
Came December down out of the mountains,
And the lilacs froze.

Ice, like glass, was on all the forest;
Shut like a lid on the steaming brook.
Blood, that sprang from the heart-roots under,
The willows forsook.

So, once more, dear heart, but only
Once, is the blossom of life betrayed.
Heart, dear heart, as I love you, tell me
You are not afraid.