The winter comes; I walk alone, 
I want no bird to sing; 
To those who keep their hearts their own 
The winter is the spring. 
No flowers to please--no bees to hum-- 
The coming spring's already come. 

I never want the Christmas rose 
To come before its time; 
The seasons, each as God bestows, 
Are simple and sublime. 
I love to see the snowstorm hing; 
'Tis but the winter garb of spring. 

I never want the grass to bloom: 
The snowstorm's best in white. 
I love to see the tempest come 
And love its piercing light. 
The dazzled eyes that love to cling 
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring. 

I love the snow, the crumpling snow 
That hangs on everything, 
It covers everything below 
Like white dove's brooding wing, 
A landscape to the aching sight, 
A vast expanse of dazzling light. 

It is the foliage of the woods 
That winters bring--the dress, 
White Easter of the year in bud, 
That makes the winter Spring. 
The frost and snow his posies bring, 
Nature's white spurts of the spring.