Wrapped in a white and hoary garb,
Nature is fast asleep;
The earth, like man, must have repose,
Or fruit we’ll never reap.
An unseen artist through the night,
In lovely crystal stains,
Has drawn the phantom fairy trees
Upon the window panes.
At night athwart the heavens, bright
Meteors flash and gleam;
And far above the wintry waste,
The stars like jewels seem.
The wind moans through the leafless trees,
The firs with snow are clad;
The feathered minstrels now are mute,
So listless, dull, and sad.
Where are the flowers? alas! they’re dead,
They slumber ‘neath the ground;
And where the blooming rose once hung,
The icicle is found.
We, too, may die, but Springtime comes,
This hope allays our fears;
The dead in Christ will live again,
Through never ending years.
ML 12/02/1945