IT is in Winter that we dream of Spring;
For all the barren bleakness and the cold,
The longing fancy sees the frozen mould
Decked with sweet blossoming.

Though all the birds be silent,—though
The fettered stream’s soft voice be still,
And on the leafless bough the snow
Be rested, marble-like and chill,—
Yet will the fancy build, from these,
The transient but well-pleasing dream
Of leaf and bloom among the trees,
And sunlight glancing on the stream.

Though, to the eye, the joyless landscape yields
No faintest sign to which the hope might cling,—
Amidst the pallid desert of the fields,—
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring.