Here lay the winter wrapped about with gloom;
But overhead God's flowers were in bloom!

At dawn, above the ink-black trunks and night,
A pale pink petal drifted with the light;
And presently the gates of sun swung wide,
And through them flowed a crimson, scented tide:
Roses that bloomed and bloomed again and died,
Staining the lonely hills on either side.

And scarce were God's fields swept of this warm glow,
When purest gold fell softly to the snow--
Petals of gold from where there rolled on high
A sea of tulips lapping all the sky.
The blossoms clung so close I could not see
One nook of empty blue where more could be.

Snow and the winds that eat into the bone,
Here where the sun lies cold and waters moan.
God's pastures still are bearing for His feet
A million purple blooms all dewy sweet:
Violets and asters, hyacinths and phlox,
And streaming shafts of starry hollyhocks.

Late in the day when I crawled up the hills,
Dogged by the cold that tortures ere it kills;
I needs must stand and stare beyond the rim,
And watch the garden once more laid for Him;
Until the moon's great dripping calyx came,
And all the myriad star-buds burst in flame.