THE piercing blast blows from the pole,
The panes are glazed with ice,
All etched and freaked in fairy lines,
With many a strange device;
The hard snow echoes underfoot
To tread of hurrying feet,
And every freezing breath is charged
With particles of sleet.
But thou, my darling, who till late
Endured the winter’ s sting,
And faded yearly with the flowers,
And shared their suffering,
Out of the storm wind and the frost,
Like birds which southward soar,
From the chill world which hurt thee so
Hast flown forevermore.
In sheltered and eternal spring,
Where never cold wind blew,
Amid the all-contented saints,
Thou sittest, contented too.
The hard things are forgotten quite,
The heavenly rest is fair,
And we who shiver still on earth
Are glad that thou art there.