The Winter's Spring

The winter comes; I walk alone, 

I want no bird to sing; 

To those who keep their hearts their own 

The winter is the spring. 

No flowers to please--no bees to hum-- 

The coming spring's already come. 

I never want the Christmas rose 

To come before its time; 

The seasons, each as God bestows, 

Are simple and sublime. 

I love to see the snowstorm hing; 

'Tis but the winter garb of spring. 

I never want the grass to bloom: 

The snowstorm's best in white. 

I love to see the tempest come 

And love its piercing light. 

The dazzled eyes that love to cling 

O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring. 

I love the snow, the crumpling snow 

That hangs on everything, 

It covers everything below 

Like white dove's brooding wing, 

A landscape to the aching sight, 

A vast expanse of dazzling light. 

It is the foliage of the woods 

That winters bring--the dress, 

White Easter of the year in bud, 

That makes the winter Spring. 

The frost and snow his posies bring, 

Nature's white spurts of the spring.

John Clare