Within these leafless trees,
That bare against the sky,
Their naked branches rear;
Leaves, buds, and blossoms lie.
So beauty's myriad forms,
Within thy soul are sleeping;
While thou, upon their sleep,
A wintry spell art keeping.
But soon the leaves and flowers
Shall burst their living tomb,
And fill the air around
With perfume and with bloom.
And buried in thy heart,
Shall thought's fair blossoms lie,
Forever unrevealed,
To wither and to die?
