Helen Gray Cone (Хелен Грей Коун)
In Winter, with the Book We Read in Spring
The blackberry's bloom, when last we went this way, Veiled all her bowsome rods with trembling white; The robin's sunset breast gave forth delight At sunset hour; the wind was warm with May. Armored in ice the sere stems arch to-day, Each tiny thorn encased and argent bright; Where clung the birds that long have taken flight, Dead songless leaves cling fluttering on the spray. O hand in mine, that mak'st all paths the same, Being paths of peace, where falls nor chill nor gloom, Made sweet with ardors of an inward spring! I hold thee—frozen skies to rosy flame Are turned, and snows to living snows of bloom, And once again the gold-brown thrushes sing.
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