Soft snow still rests within this wayside cleft,
Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled;
Last trace of dreary winter, idly left
On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled;
Why does it linger while the violets blow,
And sweet things grow?
A relic of long nights and weary days,
When all fair things were hidden from my sight;
A chill reminder of those mournful ways
I traversed when the fields were cold and white;
My life was dim, my hopes lay still and low
Beneath the snow.
Now spring is coming, and my buried love
Breaks fresh and strong and living through the sod;
The lark sings loudly in the blue above,
The budding earth must magnify her God;
Let the old sorrows and old errors go
With the last snow!