When winter's pulse seems dead beneath the snow,
And has no throb to give,
Warm your cold heart at mine, beloved, and so
Shall your heart live.
For mine is fire — a furnace strong and red;
Look up into my eyes,
There shall you see a flame to make the dead
Take life and rise.
My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey,
Still as the frostbound lake
Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway,
And will not wake.
Soundless they are below the leaden sky,
Bound with that silent chain;
Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie
May live again.
Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face
In mine the flame of life;
When frost meets fire,‘ tis but a little space
That ends the strife.
Then comes the hour, when, breaking from their bands,
The swirling floods run free,
And you, beloved, shall stretch your drowning hands,
And cling to me.