Of a thousand things that the Year snowed under,
The busy Old Year who has gone away,
How many will rise, in the Spring, I wonder,
Brought to life by the sun of May?
Will the rose tree branches, so wholly hidden
That never a rose tree seems to be,
At the sweet spring's call come forth unbidden,
And bud in beauty, and bloom for me ?
Will the fair, green earth, whose throbbing bosom
Is hid, like a maid's in her gown at night,
Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossom
Gem her garments to please my sight ?
Over the knoll in the valley yonder
The loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew ;
When the snow is gone that drifted them under,
Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew ?
When wild winds blew and a sleet storm pelted,
I lost a jewel of priceless worth ;
If I walk that way when snows have melted,
Will the gem gleam up from the bare, brown Earth ?
I laid a love that was dead or dying,
For the year to bury and hide from sight ;
But out of a trance will it waken crying,
And push to my heart like a leaf to the light ?
Under the snow lie things so cherished
Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men,
Faces that vanish and trusts that perished,
Never to sparkle and glow again.
The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder,
And covered it over and hurried away ;
Of the thousand things that he hid, I wonder
How many will rise at the call of May ?
O wise Young Year, with your hands held under
Your mantle of erminetell me, pray !
Ella Wheeler Wilcox in Boston Globe.
Akron City Times 30 Mar. 1887: 1.
Courtesy of John M. Freiermuth.
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