<h2><SPAN name="page92"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>SNOWED UNDER</h2>
<p class="poetry">Of a thousand things that the Year snowed
under—<br/>
The busy Old Year who has gone away—<br/>
How many will rise in the Spring, I wonder,<br/>
Brought to life by the sun of May?<br/>
Will the rose-tree branches, so wholly hidden<br/>
That never a rose-tree seems to be,<br/>
At the sweet Spring’s call come forth unbidden,<br/>
And bud in beauty, and bloom for me?</p>
<p class="poetry">Will the fair green Earth, whose throbbing
bosom<br/>
Is hid like a maid’s in her gown at night,<br/>
Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossom<br/>
Gem her garments to please my sight?<br/>
Over the knoll in the valley yonder<br/>
The loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew;<br/>
When the snow has gone that drifted them under,<br/>
Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew?</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page93"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
93</span>When wild winds blew, and a sleet-storm pelted,<br/>
I lost a jewel of priceless worth;<br/>
If I walk that way when snows have melted,<br/>
Will the gem gleam up from the bare brown Earth?<br/>
I laid a love that was dead or dying,<br/>
For the year to bury and hide from sight;<br/>
But out of a trance will it waken, crying,<br/>
And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light?</p>
<p class="poetry">Under the snow lie things so
cherished—<br/>
Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men—<br/>
Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished,<br/>
Never to sparkle and glow again.<br/>
The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder,<br/>
And covered it over and hurried away:<br/>
Of the thousand things that he did, I wonder<br/>
How many will rise at the call of May?<br/>
O wise Young Year, with your hands held under<br/>
Your mantle of ermine, tell me, pray!</p>
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