II.

O Sorrow, when the sapless world grows white, And singing gathers on her springtide robes, On some bleak steep which takes the ruby light Of day, braid in thy locks the spirit globes Of cool, weak snowdrops dashed with frozen dew, And hasten to the leas below Where Spring may wandered be from the rich blue Which rims yon clouds of snow. From the pied crocus and the violet's hues, Think then how thou didst rake the bosoming snow, To show some mother the soft blues Of baby eyes, the sparkling glow Of dimple-dotted cheeks.