“THERE IS A BUDDING MORROW IN MIDNIGHT.”

Wintry boughs against a wintry sky; Yet the sky is partly blue And the clouds are partly bright. Who can tell but sap is mounting high Out of sight, Ready to burst through?

Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring, Lovely for her daughter's sake. Not unlovely for her own; For a future buds in everything Grown or blown Or about to break.